Smokestak

Fans of London’s street food scene – and let’s face it, who isn’t? – will already be familiar with Smokestak from Street Feast Dalston Yard (now at Dinerama) and the legendary beef brisket buns with pickled red chillies.

Well, David Carter has come in out of the cold and opened a bricks-and-mortar version off Brick Lane on Sclater Street E1. I would say that you can't miss it, but we watched many a perplexed punter wander past the forbidding Game of Thrones-esque door and only return once they had failed to find anything more welcoming. If you get lost, just follow your nose.

The doors set the scene for the brooding industrial interior  - smoky concrete walls, exposed pipes and towering windows, this is about as masculine as a restaurant can get. Everything about it is big, solid and no-nonsense, either wood, steel, or matt black, and the focus of it all is the huge four and a half tonne smoker brought over from Houston.

That said, the general vibe is really warm and relaxed - unusual in such a new restaurant (it had only been open ten days when we went). The staff were charming, friendly and just attentive enough, never rushing us but always busy. Carter himself was the still centre of the storm, stationed calmly at the bar with his laptop, advising chefs and front of house staff as and when needed.

We were waiting for stragglers at our table (yep, you know who you are . . . ) so we early birds ordered a couple of cocktails and a cheeky little starter to keep us going. We opted for the smoked girolles on beef dripping toast which turned out to be a phenomenally good call; robust, punchy, with real depth of flavour, this set the scene for the rest of the meal. Do NOT miss this. You can thank me later.

The cocktails were pretty good too; I had the Smoke (rude not to, really, given the theme) with tequila, smoke, lime and ginger, and my companion had the Burnt Peach Old Fashioned, a great take on the classic with bourbon, burnt peach, warm spices and bitters. 

The boys arrived and we went for a bottle of the recommended red wine and the 40ft pale ale. To go with, we ordered scratchings; this turned out to be huge light-as-air swirls of crispy skin, a great appetiser for what was to come.

I lived in Texas for a couple of years (yeah, it's a long story) and this was a return to the larger than life barbecue fare I remember - and then some. Texans love their beef, and take their barbecues very seriously. Politics? Sport? Religion? Tackle a Texan about what kind of wood chips to use, what spices to include in the rub or how long is long enough and you could find yourself at the wrong end of the second amendment.

For mains, we had the beef brisket, which I was happy to see arrive with a sprinkling of the pickled red chillies on the side, and the pork ribs with pickled cucumber. The beef was exceptional; meltingly tender and perfectly seasoned even without the barbecue sauce, and great with the zing of the chillies.

The thick-cut pork ribs were also really good; chunky, succulent and delicious.

Opinion was more divided on the sides: the roasted carrots got a universal thumbs up, same for the wonderfully fresh and crisp celery, almond and preserved lemon slaw, which was so much more than a sum of its parts.

The grilled baby gem lettuce with bacon and walnut gremolata was okay, but I felt its flavours were fighting with the meat mains, which was a contest it was never going to win. The jacket potato with sour cream and chive was the troublemaker; three of us, myself included, loved it but one of us wasn't a fan of the texture - a smooth, almost pureed potato and sour cream mix in a crispy skin.

I'm sad I didn't get to try the salt-baked beetroot . . . next time!

So gluttonously on to puddings. We tried the sticky toffee pudding, which was judged to be everything one would want from the dish, and I was hoping to try the toasted oak ice cream with salted hazelnut praline but unfortunately they were out of the ice cream so I had to have the burnt butter ice cream instead. This was good, but now I have yet another reason to go back . . .

Yours, addicted to smoking,

Girl About Town xx

Barnyard

So it's a warm, drizzly Saturday afternoon in Fitzrovia and I'm just off to Michelin's hottest star Ollie Dabbous's restaurant. No, not that one - I mean Barnyard, his newest venture round the corner, where I'm reliably informed the wait is mere hours rather than months thanks to a 'no reservations' policy.

The first surprise; we appear to have fortuitously turned up between busy periods and are shown to a table immediately - nice. The second surprise; that the famously precise Ollie Dabbous, whose endive salad contains endive to orange to mint in an exact 3:3:4 ratio and who reputedly once roundly berated staff for leaving a ragged edge on the toilet paper instead of a clean line, has chosen to open a restaurant that looks like - well, like the inside of a ramshackle old barn. 

To be fair to Dabbous though, nobody gets that good without a fierce eye for detail and a relentless drive for perfection. (Actually, in Dabbous's case, hardly anybody gets THAT good at all.) Barnyard, then, feels almost like an alter-ego: reclaimed fixtures, sunflowers, mottled corrugated iron walls, manly staff in checked shirts who look like they've just finished pitchforking hay, white enamel plates and cocktails in half-pint dimpled beer mugs. It's very Of Mice and Men, but in a good way. It's fun. I'm already looking forward to good things.

Dabbous himself is still somewhat busy running his aforementioned eponymous joint so the food at Barnyard comes courtesy of Joseph Woodland (The Square, Launceston Place) and has been described by Dabbous's business partner Oskar Kinberg as 'home cooking, done well and without the washing-up'. At first glance, the menu - divided, with suitably agricultural unsentimentality, into sections headed 'cow', 'pig' and so on - contains the usual suspects for a retro Americana vibe, along with some British classics: beef, eggs, fries, chicken wings, sausage rolls, milkshakes. More of which later.

In keeping with the informal feel (you are very likely to end up squished elbow-to-elbow with other diners, it's really not the place for a private chat) the dishes are designed for sharing. I love this, as in my experience meal envy can test the strength of any relationship, but it can be tricky to gauge portions on a first visit; also the tables are quite small, so expect mild juggling and balancing to be involved. We went with our waiter's advice of 5-6 dishes plus sides and plumped for the chicken in a bun, duck egg with asparagus, fries, roast beef with watercress salad, crispy chicken wings, and broken eggs with mushrooms, garlic and parsley.

Restaurants mixing high-end dining with low-end classics can face the Bubbledogs conundrum; how much can you polish up a classic dish before it loses what makes it a classic in the first place? Barnyard has balanced this well. The chicken in a bun was moist and flavoursome, in a light brioche-style bun and served with delicately-seasoned mayonnaise. The duck egg and asparagus was delicious and beautifully presented, although given that it is a sharing plate, getting both halves of the egg would have been nice. The fries were, well, classic fries; crispy and just right.

Opinion was divided on the broken eggs - basically barely-cooked egg swirled with earthy mushrooms, spiked with garlic and balanced out with parsley. The texture was a little strange, but it was somehow comforting and I couldn't help thinking that, accompanied with some sourdough toast perhaps, it would make a perfect hangover breakfast. The wings, much hyped, were actually not my favourite; there was a quite strong herby note (fennel?) that whilst not unpleasant, I just hadn't expected from the description.

The beef, on the other hand, was outstanding. Supple slices of intensely-flavoured rare roast beef, the lightest crisp of toast, fresh peppery watercress and a warm buttermilk dressing that blends nursery comfort with the bite of horseradish. I loved this. Do not, on any account, visit Barnyard without having this dish; visually, texturally, the blend of flavours - it is fabulous in every way.

My other personal must-have - although this could be just me - is the acorn flour waffle with chocolate and malt. Totally undersold on the menu, this is delicious; a perfect dense waffle (completely unlike the plasticky fast food versions), a rich, nutty chocolate sauce and a divine malted cream that tasted exactly like the inside of Maltesers. What's not to like? 

Which brings me, neatly but not really, on to the drinks. Trust me and beware, these are the archetypal wolves in sheep's clothing. Shandies? I think not. They may well contain beer or cider plus lemonade, but these are basically cocktails in a swigging glass. Extras include gin, bourbon, whisky and tequila, with not a warning umbrella, sparkler or decorative pineapple quarter in sight - and in a half pint glass. They are intriguing, delicious, and incognito. I am absolutely serving a version of these at every BBQ I host this summer. Form an orderly queue, please. (Oh, and don't think you can escape with a milkshake - even they come with an optional tot of something stronger.)

My one regret is the absence from the menu of the popcorn ice cream with smoked fudge sauce; I had heard good things and was keen to try it. During a quick chat with the utterly charming, laid-back manager he explained that their ice cream maker had broken the day before but that the dish would be back on the menu very soon. Hey ho - I guess at least I got to experience the waffle with malted cream. Ollie, Oskar and Joseph Woodland, I salute you.

Yours, in virtual gingham and petticoats,

Girl About Town xx

The Lady Ottoline

The Lady Ottoline is a refurbished gastropub in Bloomsbury, owned by Scott Hunter and Maria Larsen (so a sister pub to the award-winning Princess in Shoreditch) and presumably named after Lady Ottoline Morrell, Bloomsbury society hostess and avid patron of the arts. The bar area has been thoughtfully restored and has a relaxed bistro feel (more formal dining is available upstairs), whilst the barstools, dark wood bar and ales on tap ensure one foot is kept firmly in the pub world.
http://www.theladyottoline.com/

I'd read some good reviews about the food here so had eaten a deliberately miserly breakfast in preparation for a full-on, blow-out Sunday lunch. Greedily perusing the menu I decided to start with the fish cake, poached egg, hollandaise sauce and fennel salad, followed by a mixed roast: beef, pork and chicken. All roasts are served with duck fat roast potatoes, green beans, broccoli, roasted carrots, Yorkshire pud and gravy, so all I had to do was choose a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from the wine list and we were away. The staff, may I say, were excellent; friendly and chatty, attentive without being pushy and genuinely helpful. Sunday papers and supplements are spread across the bar for your perusal, which is a nice touch.

Fish cakes for me are borderline comfort food. I adore the contrast of the crisp golden coating and soft, yielding centre; add some buttery garden peas to that and I'm happy, but a poached egg and hollandaise sounded blissful and suitably Sunday brunch-esque. Sadly this didn't quite hit the spot. The poached egg was perfect and the hollandaise was rich and buttery but the fish cake itself - whilst generously packed with fish - lacked texture and had a slightly bitter aftertaste. I was expecting the fennel salad to be a small side of shaved fennel, probably dressed with olive oil and lemon; in fact it was a vinaigrettey rocket salad with some bits of fennel in it - not terrible, but I think a simpler salad might have gone with the dish better.

The roast arrived, with a large slice of beef, a smaller one of pork and a chicken leg, along with the accompaniments (I would normally have gone for just the beef but I felt I owed it to you, dear readers, to sample the lot). It was, I'm afraid, disappointing. It was also a little confusing, as some of it seemed to have been rushed whilst other bits seemed to have been hanging around in the kitchen keeping warm. Here are the winners, losers and also-rans of my roast.

The beef: moist and tender but with some unpleasant gristly bits and cooked without a trace of pinkness. Personal choice I know, but roast beef to me is at its most glorious when rare.
The chicken: tending to dry but okay.
The pork belly: very fatty still, as if it had perhaps been roasted too quickly.
The Yorkshire pud: dry and overcooked, a shadow away from burned.
The broccoli and peas: undercooked to the point of being hard. And this from someone who loathes mushy veg and steams everything to the firm side of al dente. (Well, except cauliflower for a cauliflower cheese, naturally, as that is the only example I can think of where resistance is futile. Anyway, I digress; back to the roast.)
The roast carrots and beans: perfect - flavoursome and with just the right amount of bite.
The roast potatoes: awful, frankly. One was okay, the others were solid to the point that I felt if I tried to apply any more pressure with my knife, the whole thing would shoot sideways off my plate at great speed and probably kill a bystander.
The apple sauce: good, chunky and clove-scented.

Perhaps it's not a good idea to be the first customer at 12.30 (and indeed the only customer for the next half an hour) in a place that opens at noon. Perhaps their regular chef doesn't work on Sundays. Perhaps the standard is actually dropping, as one recent reviewer felt (I reread the reviews when I got home, perplexed). I want to give them the benefit of the doubt, as the lovely waitress looked genuinely alarmed when I asked for the bill (over £30 including service) with my food barely touched and asked if everything was all right. Now I'm absolutely not someone who enjoys complaining for the sake of it (in fact I really dislike those people) but I can politely send back an overdone steak or a cold soup without too much embarrassment; after all, if it was my restaurant I would want to know. But faced with her obvious concern, I just didn't know where to start.

Disappointed, I perked up when I realised the Charles Dickens museum is only a hop and a skip from the pub. Guess what? It's closed for refurbishment until December. Sometimes it's just not your day.



Yours, under my own personal raincloud,
Girl About Town xx