Dabbous: The Perfect Meal

They say that good things come to those who wait, but better things come to those who are patient. The former implying an uncertainty of whether what you are waiting for will eventually happen, or for that matter what it actually is you’re waiting for at all; and the latter being regarded as a virtuous character trait rather than one small step away from serial procrastination.

 It was with fervent virtuosity then that I loitered in the corridors of culinary curiosity for the best part of nine months; three whole trimesters in which my anticipation gestated to dangerously raised levels at the thought of the much revered and amply praised restaurant, nestling behind the satisfyingly named ‘Goodge Street’ station (say it, and add a few more OOOs).

In January of this year I was sitting on the tube perusing the Evening Standard, second only to the Metro in the polls of poor spelling, and in the review section there appeared a five star gushing about “the new place in town” – Dabbous. Being the romantic gent that I am, (rendered thus by years spent absorbing Danielle Steele novels on the shag pile that lies in the shadows of my flame licked inglenook, whilst memorising the scripts of every Richard Curtis film that made it to VHS), I took the liberty of calling up to reserve a table for the inevitable Valentines Day romancing. This would surely raise the game.

 I picked up the phone and made the call. However, not entirely unlike Pat Bateman trying to make reservations at Dorsia, I was met by the psychotic frivolity and unbridled condescension of a totally inconsequential sub-human and/or maître d’.

“A table? For two? On VALENTINES DAY!!!! . . . . . . Aah ha, ah haaa . . . . . ah ha ah ahahahhahaHHAAAAAAAA!”

The phone went dead.

We went to Tom’s Kitchen instead, which was good but incredibly overpriced for something you or I could have made at home armed with a slow cooker whilst watching American Psycho, or Love Actually.

The first available spot was October 17^th at 7:15pm, bearing in mind I was calling at the end of January, and as I rarely plan more than a week or two in front of me, and certainly not beyond December 21^st of this year as that very well may be the end of life on Earth, it seemed like a good idea to make the reservation and plan my year around supper. Not entirely out of character as my days revolve around mealtimes so it’s really the same concept but on a larger scale.

The 17^th came round and my girlfriend and I arrived separately, meeting in the cobbled street of Goodge like lovers from a Parisian romance novel, ready to stuff our faces with the inevitable edibles. We were shown downstairs to the cocktail bar by a relaxed, friendly, and particularly good-looking girl who must have been the same age as us, and could quite possibly have been the person who so cruelly belittled me all those months ago through the medium of narcissistic laughter. (This of course never actually happened; the phone conversation was nothing but amiable and drenched with the tones of cordiality).

 After a delicious ‘Beer Grylls’ and a punchy ‘Fizzy Rascal’ we were escorted convivially to our table and, on recommendation of the waiters who outnumbered the diners (yet whose presence was welcome and a far cry from the floating garcons one encounters at many a classic French restaurant, intent on refilling your wine glass after even a drop has had chance to evaporate), we opted for the ‘Tasting Menu’.

Hispi cabbage with sunflower

Celeriac with muscat grapes, lovage and hazelnuts

Coddled free range hen egg with woodland mushrooms & smoked butter

Braised halibut with coastal herbs

Barbecued Iberico pork, savory acorn praline, turnip tops & apple vinegar

Fresh milk curds infused with fig leaves; fig and pistachio

Chocolate soaked brioche, barley malt ice cream, azuki beans & pecans

The cabbage had been soaked in something delicious and was served with an incredible sauce, complemented further by the crunch of the sunflower seeds. The celeriac came in its own juices, cold, sharp and fresh, with a sweet edge provided by the muscat grapes. The coddled egg with it’s smoked butter and earthen fungi, nestling in a nest made of hay and served in the perfectly topped shell from whence it came, transformed the meal from a collection of interesting ideas into an intricately woven yarn of reliant flavours, transporting the senses and instilling emotion. The halibut was subliminal. The pork left me speechless and with a sudden urge to immigrate to Spain. The fig needed no introduction, and even brioche, something for which I harbour a passionate dislike, made me question my moral ethics and political standing.

It was quite simply fantastic, so much so that on the way out I booked another table for the soonest possible opportunity, which, as it turned out, will be half way through November.

2013 that is.

 £54.00 a head for the taster menu (cheaper than the Valentines menu at Tom’s Kitchen) and worth every penny.