The Man Behind The Curtain, Leeds

I don't think I've ever waited 10 months for a restaurant reservation, but 10 months I waited, which is about standard for The Man Behind The Curtain, in Leeds. I have absolutely no idea why it's called that, and I really expected to be sitting at a darkened spotlit bar, velvet curtain flung back dramatically while each dish is served with a flourish, face forever hidden. My expectations were poorly researched (if at all).

No, The Man Behind The Curtain is a large, white space on the top of a department store, splattered with paintings much like the dish plated in the opening photo. Staff don leather aprons with either muted or fluorescent straps, possibly to denote seniority? It reminded me of Street XO Madrid, similarly located, and similarly what would become an attack on the senses. 

We were seated, one of only three parties in the room. Sunlight shone directly into my eyes, and the staff hurried to close the floor-to-ceiling black curtains, clearly used to it. Strains of Placebo played, and we opted for the full tasting menu, a secret to us and one that would remain to be so for the duration of the meal, save our server's explanations as the plates come down. Bathrooms are alarmingly furnished with egg yolk-yellow toilet roll, so notable my friend brought some (clean I hope) to the table for us to all goggle over.

We started with an oyster served with strawberry kimchi. So delighted was I with the spicy strawberry pickle, I barely registered what was a plump and juicy mollusc, briny of the sea. 

Raw langoustines, served tartare style, arrived within a tree soon after. We all cooed over the pretty presentation, though the slippery, sweet seafood was unfortunately tainted by the blood-like tang of metal, the base of the spoon itself worn until tarnished. My companions were not as unlucky as I was, and loved theirs far more. 

We were served in a flurry, perhaps to keep within the 2hr 15 min timing stated on the menu. A tiny little bao, fluffy and garish red, nestled veal sweetbreads in XO sauce, pickled shiitake mushrooms and kimchi mayo. The mint and basil mentioned were absent to my palate. A cute mouthful, and one I could have repeated several times over. 

Wagyu beef tartare arrived in a cosmic bowl, slightly suspended with gordal olives and some sort of creamy sauce. I really wish I'd asked for a printed menu, or had one proffered. The fatty beef with the rich metallic flavours melted on the tongue, and while I found the transparent potato starch sheets balancing on top impressive in looks, it brought nothing to my party. My appetite was appropriately whetted, and I impatiently awaited the next course. 

The chef, Michael O'Hare, clearly has a colour scheme going on; it's not often you see this much red amongst savoury courses, and this was the most surprising. Within the shards of Sriracha crackers (which didn't contain even a hint of the now-ubiquitous condiment) was a spider crab, wonton skin and lardo 'lasagne' - layers of rich crab flavour, crisp crunch and rich pork fat. Underneath the sheet of bilberry jam (what the hell is a bilberry?) was a tiny, fried quails egg which I didn't especially know what to do with. I sort of wish they'd wrapped the crab, wonton and pork fat combo in some silky pasta and bathed it in a cream sauce. I started to long for comfort and warmth.

'Fish & Chips', made famous by O'Hare's appearance on The Great British Menu, was probably one of my favourite courses. Buried under a pile of crisp potato, was a perfectly seemingly steamed piece of cod, swimming in squid ink. The entire thing was dusted with malt vinegar powder, and topped with sprayed, golden prawns. I love sour flavours, and I loved this. Each mouthful was intensely seaside, that distinct flavour of fried, the lip puckering balance. 

'Polpo' was what this one was called, after the crockery it was served in. Shared between two, three pieces of beef rib were braised until tender - too tender, really, to be picked up with chopsticks and dipped in one of the mustard, coriander or truffle sauces, especially when you're sharing. Still, I enjoyed the burger-like flavour of the mustard combination especially. 

The last of the main courses looked like a piece of modern art, or something someone might have dropped. Depends how you feel about art, I suppose. Iberico pork, cooked until blushing pink, with a boquerone anchovy, anchovy cream, slow cooked egg and charcoal shavings. There was a gooey, sticky, reduced meaty jus hiding in there too, which was sweet and delicious and definitely not enough of it. The anchovy was the imposter here, one that clanged my palate and jarred my flavours that I was enjoying so much - the smoky, the rich, the porky. 

And like that, we were on to dessert. I was disappointed. It didn't feel like 8 courses, and I felt a little lacking. But no matter; dessert looked like it was sent from space. Lavender and chocolate ice cream came sheathed in white chocolate sprayed silver, a potato custard dotted with beetroot vinegared rice crispies. 

Not your typical colours of what one might find naturally, but the combination was pleasant. The potato in the custard contributed only towards texture, a silky smooth feeling in the mouth. 

Petit fours delighted and disgusted our group in equal measure. Cupcakes, edible entirely including its casing, hid a liquid passionfruit centre that exploded in the mouth, sending giggles all around the table. The wannabe Daim bar was dusted in cardamom and caraway, reminiscent of those handfuls of aromatics you grab on your way out of the local curry house to chew on to freshen the breath. 

Just like that, and £120 each later, we were done. There was nothing about the room or the staff (though pleasant) that made us want to spend any longer there, and we disbanded to a nearby pub. My overall and overwhelming experience was one of muted whimsy. The food felt discordant, not so much ecstatically pleasurable but wilfully provocative. I have no doubt that Michael O'Hare is a talented chef, and several courses excited me, but overall I was left with a sense of dissatisfaction. I wished for a hot dish, perhaps some bread and butter. I was there for an event, a procession of art, not to be fed. 

I ate a McDonald's on the train home. 

The Man Behind The Curtain

68-78 Vicar Lane,
Top floor Flannels
Leeds LS1 7JH

 For better pictures and quite a different opinion to mine, check out Chris' post here. 

Portland, Fitzrovia

Tuna tartare with salmon roe & seaweed crisps

It's not often I visit somewhere four times without writing it up; I obviously like it a lot to keep going back, especially with the number of restaurants in London that I have yet to try. Portland, situated just north of Oxford Circus, has quietly impressed and fed me for a couple of years now. I've been there for many occasions; my father's birthday dinner, a boozy leaving lunch, a work lunch, and a lunch just 'cos. One must lunch.

Truffle & Gruyère macarons

Razor clams

The menu starts with snacks, usually irresistible, and often a little startling in flavour; a true amuse bouche, really. On my most recent visit even before the snacks we had cheesy gougère pastries, warm from the oven, which popped in the mouth to reveal molten, luxurious cheese. White truffle and Gruyère macarons are really clever; mushroomy, sweet, balanced into savoury by the cheese. Raw razor clams are chopped up and drizzled with kimchi and wild garlic oil, to be slurped down in one. It's never nothing short of a delight. 

Salsify

Lobster sabayon

Beautiful crockery showcases the most incredible ingredients, treated just with the slightest teasing of complementary flavours. Last Autumn, a creamy, cheesy, almost a carbonara-like dish of salsify with crisp cured ham comforted us, like a soothing hug on a plate, carbonara-like in flavour. Now that we're coming into Spring, lobster in a sabayon-like sauce, light and luxurious, was heaving with al denté verdant vegetables. Their menu changes daily, reflecting the seasons and the produce that comes with it. 

Portland is pretty much perfect to visit as a party of 3, since they offer 3 choices per course. I'm not one to opt for the vegetarian offering though, especially not if the Specials board lists Challans duck glazed with maple syrup, confit duck, foie gras and grilled pear. It was £30, which isn't a trifling amount, but also came with the most stunning salad I've had, and unfortunately did not document pictorially, I was enjoying it so much. It was made up of crisp vegetables, fresh peas and finely shaved pear all tumbled together, to shine through the richness of the duck. If I'm honest I'd have done away with the confit duck; it didn't add much to the party. 

Sides are often superfluous but I usually enjoy them; on our latest occasion roasted cauliflower was far too cooked, and fell apart into a mush. But I've had gorgeous cheesy potatoes in a fluffy, creamy sauce which made me glad I had the space for them. Desserts are always inventive; pumpkin, blood orange, and meringue I originally veto'd but our server was horrified for us to miss it, and he was quite right. Look how pretty it is! A hazelnut eclair was light as air, pretty as a picture. Chocolate with beetroot and blackberries last year was the absolute epitome of Autumn, deep and earthy, lightened by sweet chocolate mousse. 

I'm a great fan of Portland. I never fail to have a really lovely time there; they make me feel like a grown-up, and on a special treat. The prices do too - it's not cheap, or affordable enough to be done regularly, but it is good value for the level of cooking and the quality of the produce. Quite an important distinction, that. The service is helpful, especially with the wine list which I'm told is rather special, and warm and welcoming. On the second time I visited I was startled into wide-eyes when my waiter chimed "welcome back!". It felt nice to be remembered, homely even. 

Portland
113 Great Portland Street
London W1W 6QQ

Tel: 0207 436 3261

Le Poulet du Dimanche, Hélène Darroze at The Connaught

There are some invitations you get when you just think, yes. Yes I WOULD like to come to The Connaught and try out the new 6 course ultimate Sunday roast menu, at Hélène Darroze's eponymous 2 Michelin starred restaurant. They have just launched a celebration of the chicken, inspired by Hélène's memories of France. Each course comes with a fantastic back-story of why that particular dish is on the menu, and how it links into Hélène's life.

I'm not going to exhaust you with a blow-by-blow account of the meal, as that'll only spoil the surprise for you. What I will say is that for £95 for two, this is a steal for a meal at such quality. We had little courses around the menu too, like this fennel, green apple and bergamot tea, to cleanse the palate after snacks of aioli croquettes and thinly shaved jamon (sliced table-side) with house-baked bread.

Given I spent 7 years - 7 whole years - studying French at school, you might have thought the opening course's French title might have solicited a giggle from me, but no, I stared at it blankly until our lovely menu introducer told us "directiment sorti du cul de la poule" meant "straight from the chicken's arse". It's not really, it's more to denote the freshest and best of the eggs, such as the one served here, sourced from Clarence Court (though sadly not sold in that colour). Still now I can barely ask where the swimming pool is. 7 years!

Anyway, this is one of the most glorious eggs to ever have passed my lips. It's gorgeous; the egg yolk cooked confit, and topped with crisp chicken skin bits, smoked bacon, chives and a Parmesan emulsion. It is liquid gold. When Hélène came out from the kitchens to say hello, I could only stare agog in awe at her obvious talent. She's very lovely, and has the most brilliant Fronnnch accent.  

Tiny little raviolis of Bigorre ham came next, nestled in a deep egg-like bowl. Scattered amongst, some beautifully turned and melon-balled vegetables, and a consommé was poured over. This is chicken soup for the soul, but not as you nor I know it. Once our bowls were cleared, leaving behind enough consommé, joy! Armagnac was dribbled in to mingle with it, altering the flavour profile ever so slightly, creating an altogether more warming drink that we were encourged to sip directly from the bowl. This is inspired from an old Southern French tradition called 'lou chabrol', where people added red wine to their duck and bean soup, before drinking it from the bowl. It reminded me of The Clove Club's duck broth with Madeira, surely one of my best mouthfuls of 2014. 

Liver "Royale" was a puck of shiny, gold-flecked smooth as silk paté, served with a skewered chicken oyster with cockscomb, which I can only imagine was the incredibly crisp skin surrounding it. A langoustine, perfectly poached, provided its flavour to the jus that also decorated the dish, and hints of earthiness came from perfect discs of alternating snow-white celeriac, and jet-black truffle from Périgord. 

The main event! A chicken itself, stuffed to its very... ahem with flowers and herbs. We ooh'ed, we ahh'd, we took a million pictures and it was removed to be portioned. When we got it back, a sizeable piece of breast with the most fragrant foie gras and wild garlic mixture stuffed under the skin, along with a 'boudin blanc' slice of sausage wrapped with cooked leek, and a perfect cube of fried potato. This was not just any old roast chicken. 

When I first saw the menu I thought - that's odd, there's a taco in there. But it was one of my favourite courses; named "Retour d'Asie" (Return from Asia - thanks Google Translate...) it had everything going on. The chicken leg meat was garnished with mint, coriander, spring onion, cucumber, and an incredible maize flavour from the freshly pressed tortilla. Darroze's two adopted daughters are from Vietnam, and you can see the influence there in the most refined way imaginable. That fingerbowl! My fingers smelled of mint and lavender. Gorgeous. 

Desserts were no afterthought, carrying through the eggy theme with the most sensationally eggy crème caramel I've ever tried. Dear god, it was rich delicious heaven and apparently her mother's recipe. Îles flottantes (made using egg white) bathed in a pool of velvet custard, dribbled with caramel. With these we were served an incredible Chinese (!) ice wine which is definitely worth checking out. Madeleines, made with olive oil, came warm and fresh from the oven, and were perfect with a coffee. 

There are a limited number of chickens per service and you absolutely have to book in advance. I recommend you do so immediately, as £47.50 / head (£95 per pair) for the level of cooking and just the sheer luxury of it is fantastic value. You might blow the budget on booze, mind. 

I dined as a guest of the restaurant, but all opinions are obviously my own. 

My full set of pictures from the meal is here. 

Hélène Darroze at The Connaught

Carlos Pl, London W1K 2AL

The Le Poulet du Dimanche menu is available every Saturday from 12pm-2pm and Sunday from 12-3pm and 6.30-9pm and is priced at £95 per couple. Places are limited, for reservations please call on +44 (0)20 3147 7200 

Noma, Copenhagen

When my friend told me he'd secured a 4-top table at Noma, in Copenhagen - you know, only the Most Famous Restaurant In The World Because It Might Be The Best Ever - and would I like to come, I immediately said yes. I immediately booked myself on some cheapo flights over to the Danish capital, for what would be certainly the meal of a lifetime. Anticipation built up, and I had to keep reminding myself not to go in with too high an expectation. It must be difficult to be a chef at what has been, for several years, lauded as the number one restaurant in the whole world. People traverse countries, seas, continents to dine there. It's difficult enough catering for people with all sorts of tastes, associations, preferences, but even more so with the added weight of expectation. 

It's been a long time coming, this post. Indeed, my companions have already written their (wildly differing) take on it. As can only be expected for such a well-regarded restaurant, the menu was long, the bill high. Upon reflection, I actively enjoyed 10 of 20 courses. That's not a high hit rate. But I don't regret any of it, not even the £308.12 bill. Let's delve deeper. This will take some time. Bear with me. 

Fermented plums and wild beach roses

As we approached for our 12pm reservation (12pm! How positively American of us) we barely got through the door before a chorus of chefs and front of house staff bellowed welcomes at us, relieving us of coats, guiding us gently to our table and placing a glass of fizz before us. It's a slick operation; receive, seat, get the booze in quick. We looked like rabbits in the headlights. Of course we will have the wine pairing, nice man! Get that 'juice pairing' out of my sight. 

We soon realised that every course is presented to you by a chef from the kitchen. They are mostly men. They are all incredibly handsome. As I contemplated the first course I wondered if I would be dumbstruck like a blushing schoolgirl for the wrong reasons throughout the meal. (Yes, is the answer.) Anyway, the pink disc placed before us was horrible. I took an eager bite, and my mouth was awash with astringency, floral pickledness and I bloody love pickles, let me tell you. I took another bite just in case, but no. There was something medicinal about it. I struggled to finish it. One of the staff glanced over with concern, eyebrows furrowed. My companions loved it.

Beet tartar

Never mind, moving on. Beetroot tartar consisted of roasted beets shaved very thinly, topped with ants - ANTS! Dead ants! - which are supposed to have an intense citrus flavour. I tasted bitter, astringent pickled herb. I felt like I'd fallen face first into a mound of soil. I pushed it around for a bit, listened attentively to the lovely Rene Redzepi telling us about... something. He looked at my unfinished course. I looked at it. Then I looked at my hands. 

Apple marinated in aquavit

Sweet joy and relief was this disc of pressed apple, marinated in Scandinavia's favourite booze and topped with pine and something miso-like. Sweet, boozy, savoury, pine tree frozen delight! I gobbled it down with relief. 

Oland wheat and virgin butter

Delicious was the warm spongy wheaty bread with butter I could have slathered on anything to get more of it in me. Phew. Things were picking up. 

Cabbage leaves and white currants

Isn't this dish a beauty? It was a sight to behold, almost too beautiful to destroy. The bowl had been painted green with parsley, with a steamed cabbage leaf balanced in the middle. A fragrant, cleansing white currant broth melded all the flavours together without an astringent-pickled-herb in sight. 

Green shoots of the season with scallop marinade

The most beautiful man in the world (probably - there were so many they now meld into one) brought the next dish over, and explained to us that a scallop 'fudge' had been smeared over the plate, upon which a variety of vegetables lay. Some were raw, some were roasted to crunchiness, some simply steamed. I loved this; I gathered up the contrasting vegetables onto my fork and swooped it through the caramel of the seafood. I can't name a single one of those vegetables I'm afraid. 

Grilled onion

Not just a grilled onion. Positively blackened, so that the skin was tar-black. Thyme leaves nestled inside to make the onion taste a bit like gravy. It was sweet and oniony. That's all I've got for you. I probably shouldn't go to Hedone anytime soon.

Sea urchin and walnuts

Do you know where the Faroe Islands are? No, me neither. I thought they sounded quite Caribbean when Rene was telling us that this is where the sea urchin, reportedly the best and the sweetest, is sourced. So I spent the rest of his time explaining to dish to us wondering whether we'd get some sort of pineapple dessert too. The walnuts were like I've never tasted before; none of that dusty bitter staleness, they were fresh and juicy, crunchy yet slightly bouncy. And the sea urchin was the sweetest I've tried, mixing into a creamy sauce. I thought it wonderful. The Faroe Islands are off the coast of Norway. (You knew that, didn't you?) 

Sliced raw squid and kelp

I love raw squid. I love the sliminess in the mouth, I love the bouncy resistance against your teeth as you eat it. I loved this. The creamy sauce with the squid and kelp came together to create an almost caramel flavour, likened universally by the table to Caramac. 

Mahogany clam

I also love clams. When this was brought to us, our chef proclaimed proudly "mahogany clams can live for hundreds of years - this could have been around when Queen Elizabeth I was alive!" All I could think was dear god why are we eating this poor creature. It wasn't up to much. A bit fishy, and really chewy - as you might imagine from an ancient clam. The samphire powder didn't taste of much that I could discern. I felt a bit glum about this one. 

Monkfish liver

We were several (very nice) wines in so I had to pee (sorry) but as I got up to go I was surrounded, with pleas for me to sit back down again. I obeyed and it soon became clear, for our next course was monkfish liver, frozen and shaved incredibly thinly atop a delicate cracker. It looks like jamon, doesn't it? No. It's a clever dish, as each wafer is so cold there's almost no smell to it, but thin enough so that as soon as it hits the tongue it starts to melt and release its flavour. There's a reason monkfish liver is often called the foie gras of the sea; it's rich and creamy, luxurious. Another one I enjoyed a lot, once I could get my head around eating frozen fish offal. 

Pumpkin, caviar and barley

This pumpkin disc was compressed so that the purest sweetness of the vegetable shone through. I used to be a pumpkin avoider and I'm still suspicious of its pulpy sweetness, but this was very enjoyable, mostly I suspect down the the walloping great big quenelle of caviar. The barley cream had a toasted flavour and balanced out the sweetness of the squash. 

Egg yolk, potatoes, nasturtium

This was one of my favourite dishes. Fudgy egg yolk, pouring into the vaguely green-tasting sauce, with discs of waxy potato to soak it all up. Probably one of the most straight-forward in flavour. 

Vegetable flower

By this point, after so many pleasing dishes under my belt, I had been lulled into a false sense of tastebud-tingling security, which made the betrayal of the vegetable flower all the more poignant. It was beautiful, with a shiny surface, dotted with ...bits of stuff. I took a relaxed bite and every part of my brain screamed at me to spit it out again. It tasted of carbon and petrol, harshness and garlic, acetic and hateful. I had to gulp wine to get it down, out of my teeth. I don't know who sent the alien replacements to this Earth to dine with me but they all loved theirs. My face was crumpled.

Wild duck

Are you the kind of person who prefers meat off the bone, prawns peeled, fish filleted? Noma might not be for you. A whole wild duck was presented, head and all, with its sides carved into neat slices that you could just pluck and place into a dark cabbage leaf. Oh, yes, we are back. This is much more my thing. I wondered if they had any hoisin sauce hanging around (SO ASIAN) but actually the flavour of the duck was incredible; deep, rich and gamey, the skin sweet. The head was split open and we were encouraged to eat the brains, which my zombie alien companions relished in. I generously waived my portion. Ducks have small brains, okay?

 Of course the best bits are often the darker meat, probably tougher but with loads more flavour. Leggy lollipops and whatever else we'd left behind came back to us portioned nicely, with a berry-like sauce for dipping. We stripped those bones. 

Truffle æbleskiver

Ooh look, little doughnuts in a cute pan! They reminded me of takoyaki, those batter balls filled with delicious octopus. And these ones were right posh, being all topped with truffle and that. They were filled with The Herb of Doom - lovage. Awful stuff, lovage. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall has said it tastes "intriguing" and I would agree, I am intrigued as to why on earth anyone thinks it is edible. 

Berries and greens soaked in vinegar for one year

This was every flavour I disliked - nay, found actively repellant - in the opening courses, distilled into one mouthful. 

Roasted kelp ice cream and lemon thyme

I can't remember whether I had any strong feelings about this dish, which is peculiar since I didn't do much fence-sitting for the rest of it. All I can say is that it was a dessert, with no pineapple. Because the Faroe Islands are in Norway. 

A dessert of 'Gammel Dansk' and hazelnut oil

Gammel Dansk is a Danish bitter liquer, likened to Jaegermeister. I can't say I made this association as I found the hazelnut oil mixing with the foaminess of the rectangle puff very unpleasant. I appreciated the light, aerated texture, drizzled with balsamic vinegar, but once the oil got involved, my tongue repelled it. Once again, the alien doppelgangers relished it. (Maybe I am the alien?)

Forest flavours, chocolate and egg liqueur

I ate the mushroom-shaped thing which tasted, ye gods, of chocolate mushroom. I nibbled the bushy chocolate thing at the front, admittedly I had to screw my eyes shut. I threw the towel in and admitted defeat. Instead, I slurped on a whiskey digestif, thoroughly nonplussed about the meal that had just taken place. 

We were offered a tour of the kitchens, which given the level of attractiveness of just the chefs who served us - who knows what other hotty prep chefs they were hiding back there! - it would be foolish to turn down. It's an amazing place; giant prep kitchens, tiny cupboards where all sorts of fermenting take place, and a bitterly freezing outside area where we found other chefs painstakingly plucking the feathers out of wild ducks, huddled together with big hats on to stay warm. Everyone we met was incredibly good-looking sorry, friendly and warm, inviting us to see what they had been working on, and patiently talking us through techniques and methods they use. I was even sent off with a vacuum-packed sachet of home-fermented barley koji to experiment with. 

Back in the prep kitchen, Rene whipped out a map of Copenhagen to doodle on and talked us through all the spots he thought we must visit, taking his time to talk us through why each of them were worth our time. "You must go to this taco place. The food's probably better than here!" he said, with a chuckle. He was just the loveliest.

So, I didn't like a lot of the food. I still left feeling that I'd had a meal of a lifetime though, and one I will never forget. We were treated incredibly well; Noma and their staff are the masters, the very epitome of what great hospitality is all about. In two and a half hours our 20 course meal was over, and not once did I feel that anything was rushed, nor was there a beat missed. Even right at the very end, with a fresh looming service ahead of them, it was suggested that we might stay a little longer to chat and enjoy a glass of wine in the lounge before heading out into the driving snow - perhaps they glanced at my party's footwear and thought we needed bolstering. They were correct. 

I was presented with a huge number of things I'd never eaten before, a lot of flavours that my palate has never experienced (nor, perhaps, would like to again), but I know I may be the anomaly, as I over-heard another guest exclaiming that it was his third visit. Was November, almost the dead of winter, the wrong time to go for me? Would I have enjoyed it more with the fresh, abundant produce of Spring? Between four of us I haven't ever experienced a meal that has divided opinion so much - and we aren't contrarians really - ranging from Jassy who loved the meal, filtering down through Chris and Helen, to me, who was probably the only one who might consider turning fugitive if presented with that 'vegetable flower' again. 

Still, as you can see from our faces, we left really happy - and for me, that's what eating out is all about. 

Don't ever make me eat pickled rose petals again, though. 

Noma

Strandgade 93, 1401 København K, Denmark

+45 32 96 32 97