The Tate Modern
After waiting in the mother of all immigration lines at Stansteed, famished, we caught the train into town. It was about two in the afternoon by the time we checked in, dropped our bags and headed back into the street for a pint. Went into the first pub we saw – the crowd was gathering for the Six Nations match between England and France. No kitchen service during the match. Seriously? (So that nothing interferes with getting your drink on while watching France destroy the English side?) Have a quick drink and set out. Fast food and not much else. Go across the street into an M&S Food, grab a couple pre-made sandwiches and eat while strolling the neighbourhood. (We stayed very close to the Earls Court tube station in Kensington.) The sandwiches were excellent. No joking. BLT. Ham and cheese with Branston pickle. Curried shrimp. All excellent. How Subway stays in business in Britain I do not know.
Headed out that night with no real destination in mind. Got off the tube at Kensington High Street, exited the station and turned right which, ironically in retrospect, was the exact same decision we made six years earlier. Apparently, I’d manifested some long-term memory loss. High Street quickly turns into a residential area – apartments I could not afford the taxes on the parking spot on one side – Hyde Park on the other. Catch a bus headed towards Soho. Get off. End up eating (mostly out of desperation) in an Indian bistro – not great – same thing you could get anywhere along Scott Road for 1/5 the cost.
The next day was the one I’d been waiting for. Dinner at St. John. Spent the day at the Tate Modern, then shopping on Oxford. Lunch was at a pub in the city surrounded by dealmakers while I enjoyed my ploughman’s and pints.
Took The Tube to the restaurant that evening. Arrived a half hour early (so a quick pint at a local pub). Look around, things appear familiar. I’ve been here before. Exit the pub and walk back to The Tube station. Definitely. It was the station we’d met my wife’s cousin at the last time we were in London. The pub was where we’d rallied the UK arm of my wife’s family last time. It was also the location that one of my daughters was given her name. While chatting about names with the family, the right one had come out. Small world.
Walked into St. John bang on time at eight o’clock. Sat and looked at the menu. Mild disappointment as their daily menus are posted online and this was the least interesting one I’d seen in a while. Very little nose and tail, very much the parts in between. Had trouble getting a waiters attention to order wine. We’d just had an aperitif five minutes before. (Okay, I had a pint, which strictly speaking may not be an aperitif but let’s not split hairs here.) Browsed the menu. I made my choices and my wife had some questions. Flag a waiter and ask what is meant on the menu by “Crumbled Veal”. He glances at us like we’re mental and states with a haughty tone, “Well obviously it means breaded.” Obviously to you maybe, to me it’s a fey little twee word game of the most irritating sort designed to make me feel stupid. For a restaurant that purports to be simple food simply prepared, they certainly go in for cryptic nomenclature.
Roasted Bone Marrow and Parsely Salad
Started with the Roast Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad, the highlight of the night. Rich full bones, perfect toast for spreading and a crisp salad studded with capers as a perfect foil to the marrow. Spread marrow on toast, top with a little salad, then a pinch of salt and enjoy. So good, so simple, so perfectly done.
The Venison Salad
The wife started with a Venison Salad, which turned out to be some sad little slices arranged on a plate like staple of the 90’s, carpaccio.
Then came the entrees. Chitterlings with mashed turnip for me and the crumbled veal with anchovy kale for her.
My Chitterlings
The veal chop was pretty average – neither pounded uniform nor from a calf that would justify the cruelty in its preparation – just a plain old fifty dollar veal Milanese with some not bad kale on the side, slightly heavy on the anchovies. Not even a lemon to brighten things.
The Crumbled Veal
My chitterlings were…odd. The occasional pork innard surrounded by a mountain of waaaaay too salty grilled ham. I don’t know if they were short on chitterlings and decided to stretch one more entree, or if it was a willful introduction to neophytes of the glories of pig parts made less intimidating by the addition of muscle tissue. Weird either way. Too salty as mentioned with nary a hint of the advertised mustard glaze before they were grilled. Watery mashed turnips on the side.
A chipped wine glass (actually a water glass, as they’re the same until you crack the fifty pound price point on the wine list, I hate that), sat forlornly on the corner of the table in plain view of anyone dressed like a server. I hesitate to say “worked there”, because very few of the staff seemed to be doing much other than walking in circles like that neurotic dog we once owned (and subsequently put down).
The meal was strange. No, scratch that. It was dire. Very very dire. It clearly wasn’t the same restaurant that’d garnered accolades far and wide earlier in its existence. While it’s not fair to condemn it due to one bad (Monday) night – perhaps the B team was working – but recent Internet buzz suggests we were not the only poor recent experience. We left without waiting for dessert, feeling slightly upset that the experience we’d wanted hadn’t lived up to our expectations. Not in the least. It was a bad experience. I get that when you walk the line of stark simplicity, as Mr. Henderson does, you’re sometimes going to swing and miss due to the nature of not disguising things with fancy techniques and rich sauces. Perhaps that’s all that happened on the night we were there. One bad meal does not a reputation ruin. I’d return for two reasons, A) Because the desire to experience the cuisine being pure unadorned perfection is strong, and B) To see if our first visit was an anomaly.
Eighty pounds with two appetizers, two entrees and one bottle of wine.
Then back to Vancouver the next day on a Boeing so old that I swear it had ferried English troops to The Falkland Islands in a previous life. I now get the Air Canada hate.
