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There's rarely shock news in the restaurant world – every chef's sneeze is usually followed by a frenzy of press releases and social media hyperoo. So when Chiltern Firehouse launched without a murmur – how odd that seems, now that it has generated as many column inches as a Kardashian – the biggest surprise to industry insiders was Nuno Mendes's defection from his Michelin-starred Viajante.
- Typing Room
- Town Hall Hotel, Patriot Square,
- London
- E2 9NF
- 0207-871 0461
-
pen lunch, Wed-Sun, noon-2.30pm (3.30pm Sun), dinner, Wed-Sat, 6-10.30pm. About £45 a head for three courses, plus drinks and service; set lunch, £24 for two courses, £29 for three.
Food 8/10 (dessert 0/10)
Atmosphere 6/10
Value for money7/10
Who knew? Also, what would happen to Viajante? Were they going to slap out some designer dude food-by-numbers to mollify the Tower Hamlets trendies? (Yes, I'm rehabilitating "trendies".) Surprisingly, no.
The new restaurant is under the aegis of Jason Atherton, a chap currently spreading himself as thin as cheap margarine; "executive chef" is one Lee Westcott, most notable for heading up Tom Aikens' restaurant after its ill-fated revamp. He looks about 12. Oh, hell, I'm getting that policemen thing with chefs.
Like the continuing fine dining ambition, the room doesn't appear to have changed much; perhaps the paintwork is a bit more sombre and the Scandi-style furniture a little less stark. We're in the preferable front of the bisected room in full view of the open kitchen, a wonderful piece of theatre, even if you know the real graft is going on in a less Instagrammable kitchen downstairs. The food that issues from it is, with one dramatic exception, bloody marvellous.
We don't order the tasting menu, but by the time we've been encouraged to order a dish from each of four sections by a twinkly Russian waiter, we might as well have. Our "snacks" are choux profiteroles topped with a sultry black olive emulsion and stuffed with a rich courgette and basil mixture that cleverly apes crème pâtissière; and a lettuce leaf brimming with gorgeousness – the pungency of smoked eel, the pop of raw peas, a whip of wasabi and the sharp fragrance of a lemon almost-curd. The presentation is as beautiful as a bouquet. I love this.
I'm also keen on raw beef, shredded rather than minced, with a forest of sorrel and crunch of panko on top. Love, too, for pneumatic langoustines, palest pink, their tender bodies flecked with the gentlest veneer of char ("scorched"). They bob in a broth of dashi and herbs left to steep in a tiny glass teapot, alongside agnolotti-like dumplings, a melting strip of lardo and (another rehabiliation) baby sweetcorn. And I nearly love baby monkfish, with its curious, pungent accompaniments of fermented endive, glossy broccoli puree, bitter orange and curry spicing.
Two things are worthy of stalking obsession: rye IPA sourdough served with whipped Marmite butter studded with popped barley, an orgy of maltiness; and pork belly finessed into luxury – it is, according to the pal, the best she's tasted. (And she's the restaurant critic for a city across the pond that regularly knocks what we've got to offer into oblivion.) Its perfect layers – smoky fat, meat, toffee-crisp crackling – look as though they've been arranged by Bridget Riley. There are blobs of pale pink puree – sultry, sexy peach. Plates are scattered with flowers, and if something can be burnt or scorched, it will be ("What next?" asks the pal. "Burnt flowers?"). But it is all done with delicacy and wit.
So I'm primed to go all out for Westcott, to trumpet him the one to watch, the new golden boy. And then pudding. Jasmine pannacotta. Sounds innocent enough, but oh boy. It arrives seeping a kind of ectoplasm from snowy chunks ("aerated apple sorbet", allegedly) that look and behave like dry ice. I pop one in my mouth and freeze as comprehensively as the dessert. It frostbites my palate and shreds my tongue. I've no idea what the rest of it tastes like. In fact, I've no idea what anything tastes like for the rest of the day.
I'm chalking it down to over-enthusiasm, to the desire to make a mark in someone else's long shadow. Overall, Westcott could calm down over the amount of stuff – ingredients, techniques, processes – he likes to ram on to the plate, perhaps (a hangover from overwrought Aikens days?). Chill out, Lee. Apart, of course, when it comes to pudding.
• Typing Room Food Town Hall Hotel, Patriot Square, London E2, 0207-871 0461. Open lunch, Wed-Sun, noon-2.30pm (3.30pm Sun), dinner, Wed-Sat, 6-10.30pm. About £45 a head for three courses, plus drinks and service; set lunch, £24 for two courses, £29 for three.
Food 8/10 (dessert 0/10)
Atmosphere 6/10
Value for money 7/10
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