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 17th 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 21st 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 17th
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.
