Pitt Cue, Devonshire Square

I've always been a fan of Pitt Cue, right from when they opened a van underneath the Hungerford Bridge way back in 2011. Back then we didn't know a thing about proper American barbecue; sure, we had Bodeans, where meat was cooked until it fell off the bone, to be drenched in sweet, smoky sauces. People obviously liked it as the place was busy but every experience I had there left me feeling a little meh, a little over-stuffed and quesy. It felt, to me, like junky giant portions of mass soulless catering. Then Pitt Cue Co. burst onto the scene, and there it was; properly smoked meats and brilliant sides. 

A year later, the Soho baby was born. It was tiny. Queues were lengthy, and to eat there you had to really put the effort in; turn up early, turn up only mildly hungry to increase in the wait, get stuck into the cocktails while you tap your foot impatiently. I went a handful of times, whenever I could convince companions it was worth the wait. With a restaurant that small you can't turn enough tables in the service to make a decent profit, especially when you're using high quality ingredients. While it was a lot of fun down there in that raucous basement, it was obvious that it wasn't sustainable. It was also uncomfortable, unless you were more tolerant than I was with eating with your mates' elbow in your side. Finally, FINALLY, they've relocated to a much larger space.

Devonshire Square, near Liverpool Street is one of those hidden away little places that I've never set foot in, in all my years in London. It's wine bars and bouncers and blue-lit trees, festooned with fairy lights. It's suits and tall buildings and City. I got lost and a security guard guided me to the restaurant. It's enormous inside, and it's also incredibly beautiful with exposed brickwork and chrome beer tanks, bottles gleaming behind the bar. There's a bar area in which we sat at on high stools, sipping on pre-dinner, bright pink mezcal cocktails. The dining room holds around a million (roughly) more tables than Soho, backed by a gleaming kitchen, head chef Tom Adams at the marble pass. 

The menu, too, has evolved. Gone are the trays with hunks of meat served with a heel of bread. No, the menu now has snacks, starters and mains, while a blackboard lists specials of meat by the weight. The 'potato cakes' from the snacks menu is not to be missed; layers of potato pressed and deep fried, reminiscent of The Quality Chop House's now-famous confit potatoes, and served with a leek mayonnaise. I don't think we need chips anymore, guys. These are the one. 

Cep and black garlic mangalitza sausage showed off the kitchen's sophistication. Smoky, juicy and with an incredible earthiness, the puck of sausage was neither dense nor crumbly, but just the perfect resistance to the fork. 

Lamb's heart and rosemary was the most surprising dish of the night. Any hearts I've eaten - I sound like a serial killer - have always had some sort of  chew to them, a slight toughness from a muscle well used. This was different; velvety slices melted in the mouth, a light lamb flavour with just a hint of rosemary in the liquor. Simple, stunning, and very clever. 

For me, smoked eel broth with bacon toastwas less successful. The broth was beautifully clear, studded with cubes of carrot, celery and eel but I found the intense smoky flavour jarring with the format being broth, and the bacon toasts a little over-greasy. 

The Mangalitza chop seemed a diminutive portion for £16, but actually the richness and flavour of this rare-breed pork justified the price tag. Two slices of perfectly pink meat, topped with pickled onions with incredibly buttery, delicious fat; I knew I'd chosen well, despite my innate dislike for my dinner served on a board - maybe they'd run out of plates though, as this chap on the same night had one. The bone marrow mash that Pitt Cue were so famous for is still on the menu, now adorned also with mushroom. There'd be riots in the streets of London (ok, hyperbole. But only just.) if that came off the menu. I was in a rich, meaty heaven. 

For such a meat-centric restaurant, they really care about their vegetables. Grilled hispi cabbage with wild garlic was the perfect foil for all the meat we were eating; who needs salad when you can have smoky charred greens? And how better to dress a salt-baked celeriac than with runny cheese? These are the kind of vegetable dishes that make you really want to eat vegetables. 

Ahhh lardy cake. I usually avoid those warming spices in desserts, you know the sort - cinnamon, nutmeg and that - but this was something else. It's a slice of sweet bread studded with raisins, but with the most crisp outer layer, and soft cakey insides. It's traditionally made with lard and I have no reason to suspect otherwise here, so delicious was it. We also had baked custard with rhubarb, which while tasty enough felt a little on the boring side in comparison; it was very much a sum of its parts. 

You can get away with spending around £40 a head with booze if you don't go mad on the cocktails and then decide to drink a bottle of wine each (ahem) which, for the level of skill in the kitchen and the quality of the food, I thought pretty great value. For somewhere open in only its second week, the service was incredibly accomplished, our waitress was fun and nice and knowledgable which is all that I want. Those Soho stalwarts may lament a change in atmosphere, a glossy sheen added, suited City types on most of the tables, but we're on their turf now, and I'll take it for the ability to reserve a table. What novelty! So that's what happens up town. 

Pitt Cue 
1 The Avenue
Devonshire Square, EC2M 4YP 

To book: reservations@pittcue.co.uk or 020 7324 7770

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

The Newman Arms, Fitzrovia

Around these parts, The Newman Arms used to be called ‘that pie pub’. I worked 10 minutes away from it for 6 years, and I went a few times – mainly in the depths of winter, to hunker down in the tiny little room upstairs with sticky tartan carpets and too-close-together tables. It smelled like cabbage and butter, and the only thing on the menu was – yep – pies. Most of them were the kind of pies that pie purists get their knickers in a right old twist about; you know the ones, they harp on endlessly about pies needing sides, and these! These! They shout, brandishing their pitchforks. These are CASSEROLES WITH LIDS! Snore. 

Those days are gone now, and so are their pies. The upstairs has been refurbished; nothing extensive, just pared back simplicity. The dining room is tiny, and the kitchen even more so which makes it all the more impressive for what comes out of it. It's still a pub downstairs, and on a Friday night you may have to jostle through a street-full, then a pub-full of drinkers to make your way up the rickety stairs. 

The Cornwall Project has taken the space over; they're also in residence at The Adam and Eve in Homerton, The Three Crowns in Stoke Newington, and The Duke of Edinburgh in Brixton. They like their pubs. The Project started five years ago with Matt Chatfield, a Cornishman who has worked closely with suppliers in Cornwall to bring London restaurants the finest produce, and has now branched out on his own.

From a short and changing menu, duck hearts with beetroot, blackberries and cobnuts is a great little starter; vivid on the plate, and the tender hearts sweetened with the fruit. It felt wonderfully autumnal, and the softer, squidgier textures were offset by the roasted, crunchy cobnuts. Some fine bread, loose-crumbed and sourdoughy, came with a generous pat of butter.

Mackerel with cucamelons - cucamelons! How cute are they? - and dill oil could have done with a heavier hand on the pickle flavour but otherwise the fish itself, served raw, was as fresh could be. Mackerel is an oily fish which has a tendency to go very fishy if it's been sitting around for a while, but there was absolutely no sign of that here. I am in love with cucamelons; grape-sized, cucumber flavoured and with a hint of citrus. 

I loved the aged rump cap beef tartare, properly beefy and chopped coarsely, so you could feel each little piece in your mouth. My poor companion, an avoider of the raw flesh, found that she really liked this one in small doses. Me? I piled that chargrilled toast up high, relishing the pickle and the smoked anchovy cream that dotted the tartare. 

An unexpected treat from the kitchen came in the form of lamb rump with an incredibly, impossibly crisp skin. God I love salty salty lamb fat. Pickled shiitake mushrooms made a change from the usual, a more interesting accompaniment to what can sometimes be a fairly standard meat-and-two-veg choice. 

The turbot though. Now this was pretty damn special. Pearly white flesh, on top of crushed potatoes, grilled yellow courgettes and purple micro-basil. Don't ask me what the sauce was - I have no idea and the menu missed this bit off - but my word this was good. Even though I know turbot is one of the most expensive fishes out there, at £25, it's the most expensive dish on the menu so it had a lot to live up to. Thankfully it did, and I was loathe to share it. 

It's very well I did, because otherwise I may have been denied the salt-baked celeriac with Tunworth cheese. It says a lot about a restaurant when out of 4 main courses you still fancy trying the vegetarian option (ok, maybe it says a lot about me), choosing over pork belly and beef shortrib. I have fond memories of salt-baked celeriac from The Ledbury; the salt-baking really intensifies the flavours, condenses the textures. Tunworth cheese is a runny, pungent one, adding some extra oompf. Pickled walnuts were a nice touch, and I especially liked the cubes of crisp, sharp apple; completely unexpected and it sounded bonkers on paper, but worked beautifully on the plate. 

I didn't take a picture of dessert. I completely forgot. I was having such a lovely time that once the dessert was set before us, we went at it and that was that. It happens a lot with me and desserts. The chocolate mousse was not, in fact, a mousse but was actually a baked fondant, those things with a liquid centre that Masterchef contestants seem to decide to make all the time despite its propensity to go completely wrong. This did not. The insides were molten, the outsides were cakey. It was light enough, topped with ice cream, for us to wipe the dish clean, and not so rich as to make us feel sick. 

As you can tell, I am a big fan of The Newman Arms in its new incarnation. We had a couple of dishes gifted to us (the beef tartare and the lamb) because Matt is just a bloody nice bloke but without it I can hand on heart say that I would feel the same way. These days finding a restaurant in the environs of Soho and Fitzrovia that is actually bookable, with brilliant food that won't bankrupt you is a rare find, and The Newman Arms is all three. 

Oh! There is ONE pie. It's on at lunchtime, when there is a ludicrously cheap 3 courses for £19 deal. I believe it might even have pastry sides to it, but don't hold me to that... 

The Newman Arms
23 Rathbone Street, 
London, W1T 1NG 

Bar Del Pla, Barcelona

I've just spent two weeks in Barcelona for work; you'd think in a city so full of restaurants you'd try to get to as many as possible, but actually I enjoyed Bar del Pla so much, I went twice. 

We experienced both sides of the spectrum; perched at the bar, and sat down properly in the back dining room. No prizes for guessing where had the better ambience, but since both times they were full and we had a short wait, we weren't being picky. Pan con tomate, a staple of the Catalonia region, was rich with pulp and twinkling with salt crystals. A squid ink croquette was startling in colour, but as good as any I've had; melting inside, crisp outside. Long, thin peppers, blistered and hot replaced the usual padrons. These were spicier than their more squat counterparts, and we spluttered often. 

I'd never have ordered the 'mushrooms and wasabi' if I hadn't been so vegetable-deficient by this stage of the trip. Man I am glad we did. Chestnut mushrooms, shaved incredibly thinly and served raw, mingled with pieces of strawberry, curls of a sharp cheese that might have been manchego, and slivered shiso leaves - all drizzled with a wasabi-scented dressing. It sounds completely bonkers doesn't it? It was so, so good. A simple tomato salad featured firm, large chunks of the sweetest fruit, heightened by great olive oil and sherry vinegar. We flicked more salt crystals off.

Asparagus were grilled until tender, a smokiness imbued within them. Romesco sauce, made with red peppers, almonds, bread and olive oil blitzed to a coarse, red paste is another Catalonian speciality, and added richness to the vegetables. We devoured this. I'm not sure the cress added much (does it ever?).

From the larger 'granny's cuisine' dishes, I only ordered this dish because @jmdale01, who'd recommended me the restaurant, said to; on the menu, it was labelled 'Iberican Cheek Café Paris' and it didn't sound particularly exciting (more baffling...), but the perfectly cooked cheeks, fork-tender and gelatinous were in its' braising juices that tasted lightly curried. Almond-scented croutons topped the dish which added a surprising, slightly sweet dimension, while the potatoes remained al dente, ideal for swiping up extra sauce. This was a real highlight of the whole trip. 

I don't normally go in for foie gras. I find it a bit too much and it finishes off what remaining appetite I might have, but I wasn't eating alone and I can't always have my way I suppose. True to form, the foie gras was incredibly indulgent, but cooked well with a crisp caramelised crust and custard-smooth inside. The 'crispy beef' was slow-cooked shredded beef, wrapped around a thin filo-like pastry and deep-fried. Rather astoundingly, this dish was only €5.90.

'¡¡¡A Tapa of Tripe!!!!' was how the menu described this cast-iron dish of, well, tripe. Cooked with chorizo, the pieces were gooey and frilly in the mouth. I liked it, though less so when it repeated on me through the night. My companions were apprehensive, crying off with mumbles of being overly full to take it on.

Both times I was surprised how cheap the bill was; with ample of their delicious white rioja and tip, we barely scratched £25 a head. Well worth a visit. Or two.

Bar Del Pla

Carrer Montcada 2,
80030 Barcelona