THE PERSEVERANCE: PEARL OF THE QUARTER

When I was resting between jobs (you'll probably remember my role as Pale in The Tinsley Players production of Lanford Wilson's Burn This) I kept a spreadsheet of restaurants which were due to open.

Exhibiting slightly alarming tendencies of the anorak variety (most men have them but usually keep them firmly under control) I would scour the trade rags and job sites for news about new restaurants and count down the days to when they finally opened. I would pitch up for a meal - barely giving the paint on the doors a chance to dry - usually to the bemusement of the staff.

Things change. Now with increased use of social media by PRs and Chefs most places are known about well before they open. Heston Blumenthal’s Dinner is a good example. It’s also made it pretty difficult to find those undiscovered gems that made all the list-keeping so worthwhile.

Or so I thought until recently when a tipoff from someone I follow on Twitter had me running to Google Maps (RIP A to Z). My contact had mentioned a pub which now had new owners. The lineage of the staff pointed to the Anchor and Hope in Waterloo. I'd got a similar tip from the same person about the rather wonderful Canton Arms in Stockwell so I knew it would be a lead worth following up.

The Perseverance is situated in a quiet road in an odd little area north of the Marylebone Road and just round the corner from the charming Marylebone Station, an area which has thankfully yet to be designated ‘a village’.

The pub has been stripped down, cleaned up and given a lick of paint to produce a casually elegant space which is dominated by a large horseshoe bar. At the moment there’s just a few tables to eat at but there are plans to open a 40 cover dining room on the first floor.

If you're a fan of bling or any sort of see-and-be-seen, er, scene then The Perseverance may not be for you. It's got a relaxed feel that I liked but the emphasis is definitely on the things that matter: food and drink. I'll eat a lot of meals in the forthcoming year but I like to think the ones I’ve had here will be up there with the best.

The menu was one of those that you look at and wish one’s capacity to eat wasn’t being slowly diminished year by year – I genuinely would have been happy eating any of the dishes on it (apart from the soup which I’m sure is terrific but which I hardly ever order in a restaurant).

Chef Justin Aubrey’s food is not of the shouty type that blasts the taste buds with over-reduced sauces and flavours that clamour for attention and which leave you feeling a little ill. No, this is deceptively simple stuff but made with good ingredients and a fine technique to give a surprisingly refined result.

For a starter the Monkfish Liver is probably as interesting and delicious a dish as you can get in London at the moment. Two decent-sized lobes of Monkfish Liver had been lightly browned in butter. They were soft with a delicate flavour of offal and of the sea. A sort of piscine Foie Gras. It had been paired with a salad of Parsley, Capes and Shallot to add a burst of piquancy.

A bowl of steamed Clams had the heady aroma of the bivalves best buddies: garlic and lemon. They were fresh and meaty and left a small puddle of shellfish broth into which I had to dunk chunks of the good homemade bread.

Saddle of Rabbit had been boned and stuffed with its own offal and some greens. The whole had been rolled and covered in bacon and sliced. It was moist and tender with that faint taste of game that rabbit has but with an offal hit. It came with a little jug of a creamy mustard sauce and a small dish of a rich Celeriac Gratin.

Another main course was an individual Wellington. Fillet of Bambi was covered with a mushroom duxelles in the classic manner and wrapped in excellent pastry. A slick of jus, some watercress and excellent red cabbage made for a fine dish to say goodbye to January to. This is seasonal food without making a song and dance about it.

Good pastry was also in evidence in the puds as well. Over a couple of visits there’s been a tart on the menu and the Lemon one particularly stood out in the memory with it’s crumbly pastry and light, zesty lemon cream. Three scoops of a Salty Butter Caramel Ice Cream had proper texture and just the right amount of bitter caramel taste. A similar number of scoops of a tart Granny Smith sorbet would be a good choice if you’d overindulged during the rest of the meal (maybe too much of the marvellous bread); a cup of their good Coffee with a Grappa would serve the same purpose.

The wine list has been intelligently put together with several natural wines available – if that floats your boat – but I was guided towards a terrific Beaujolais which seemed like it would go with anything. Like the food the prices seem pretty reasonable to me and if you don’t want to splash out on a bottle there’s plenty available by the glass or two sizes of pot.

When I’ve visited good, independent operations I’ve always bemoaned the fact that there aren’t more of them around especially in the central parts of the capital. With chains increasingly cluttering up our high streets the hope that we could have similar joints on every corner begins to look like a pipe dream. Places like The Perseverance make me think there’s still hope. Budding restaurateurs please take note or better yet pay them a visit, they’re nice people.

CANTON ARMS: DOING THE LAMBETH WADDLE

If you’ve eaten out regularly in London during the past twenty years then it’s very likely you will have had food prepared by a group of female chefs who have not had nearly enough of the recognition they deserve. Like The Wrecking Crew – those session musicians who in the Sixties played on just about every hit going – these chefs have quietly got on with the business of cooking and turning out the sort of food that you’d want to eat every day.

People like Carol Cradock who cooked at Bibendum and Vinoteca, Rosie Sykes who was at Alastair Little and ran her own restaurant – the much missed Sutton Arms in Smithfield. Another of this band was Trish Hilferty who cooked at the Eagle, the first gastropub and who also ran her own place, The Fox in Shoreditch where I used to go several times a week for my supper.

That was several years ago and apart from writing some books I didn’t know where her career had taken her. That was until I pitched up at the Canton Arms in Stockwell on Saturday, where she’s opening up this new Ale and Food House - I think it’s preferred description - with staff she worked with at the Anchor and Hope and Great Queen Street (I’m sure you’ve all heard of those gaffs).

The setup at the Canton Arms will be familiar to anybody who’s visited the A&H or the Magdalen Arms in Oxford. There’s a pub bit and there’s a restaurant bit although you could probably eat what you want where you want – it’s that sort of place. Apparently, the aim is to not alienate the locals with any of the sort of fancy-schmancy nonsense you’d get North of the river. This playing it quietly for now extends to the menu which is pretty short and supplemented by a few bars snacks with (hallelujah) no Scotch Eggs to be had (the backlash begins here).

Speaking of bar snacks, irrespective of what I was going to choose for the rest of my meal there was no way I wasn’t going to order some Foie Gras Toasties. I’ve no idea if they’re an original idea - although I’ve never seen them on a menu – but they’re certainly a brilliant way of using that Breville toaster gathering dust in the cupboard.

I haven’t had a toastie since, oh, 1982 but I’m sure they never tasted like this. Rich, but in the nicest possible way they’re best eaten when the liver within has had a chance to go a bit runny. By accident I spilt some red wine onto my plate and some soaked into one of the golden-hued triangles. If anything it tasted even better. I’m putting this up there with the discovery of Fire and the Wheel…and it’s all mine.

A Cassoulet for two was the stuff of dreams - for Trenchermen (and women) and Hermanos, natch. The beans had been cooked so they retained a little bite and hadn’t disintegrated into mush. There were hunks of good Belly Pork topped with strips of crisp crackling and legs of good-flavoured Duck Confit. A layer of breadcrumbs added extra crunch. Only some fat sausages underwhelmed a little and got lost in the mix.

There was some moisture too so that the dish made for easy eating although next time I’ll take up on the offer of a green salad on the side, a Cassoulet really cries out for something sharp and vinegar based.. I made do with a dab of Dijon mustard, some of homemade Chutney and a glass of Marcillac.

Unlike many Cassoulets this one wasn’t overrich so a pud wasn’t out of the question. A little Chocolate Pot hit the spot, as it so often does, and a glass of a nascent Damson Gin made for a pleasant digestif although it didn’t prevent me waddling towards Stockwell Tube in the manner of the quack-quacks I had just eaten.

Bread from Di Lieto bakery is very good and apart from a bit of over-enthusiastic pouring, service was relaxed and professional, a A&H trademark.

I think the location should mean the Canton Arms will be frequented mainly by locals and not chinless yuppy hordes from Fulham (I don’t think they’d be able to navigate their way to Stockwell anyway) which I believe is the hope of the owners. So if you’re in the area pop in have a pint and a toastie or better still a plate of Trish Hilferty’s food and enjoy yourselves. Just don’t expect to find a fully formed Anchor and Hope Mark 2. Yet.

PS When I visited the Canton Arms had been open for three days.

THE MAGDALEN ARMS: FIRST CLASS

Apparently there’s been a whole bunch of weather around (that bit is for HS who is almost a septic these days). I wouldn’t know. In the environs of Casa DH it’s been a bit chilly of late and I think I saw a few sprinkles of snow once, but that was about the extent of it. Over the past week I’ve been going to work and about my business no bother.

Really, if you’re going to live in dreary Metro-land - or as DH know it death by a thousand trouser presses – then you deserve all you get. I even made a 100 mile round trip to Oxford the other Saturday in search of some decent grub.

It was only while planning my journey that I realised I’d only visited the University City once in my life and that was very briefly as part of a week I spent at the cookery school at Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons (when starred chef Alan Murchison was running the show).

Oxford is a pleasant enough place once you look beyond the identikit centre although lack of time meant I had to forgo my normal rubbernecking activities and make my way to lunch at The Magdalen Arms just outside town. However, I did manage to slide past a college or two which put me in mind of a heat of University Challenge. Dreaming Spires indeed.

The Magdalen Arms has been opened by a young couple, Florence Fowler and Tony Abrano, who have arrived here from the Anchor and Hope in London via The Olde Bell in Berkshire. They’ve taken a large pub which was formerly dedicated (presumably) to the downing of gallons of chemically-enhanced effluent with a helping of grot on the side. The emphasis is now on the food operation although this apparently hasn’t frightened off all the regulars. Yet.

It’s only been opened a few months ago but has already garnered a good reputation and soon after arriving the place was filled with the beau and belle monde of Oxford and their well-behaved sprogs. People of N1 please take note.

The menu has the sort of hearty School of St John dishes which will be familiar to those Londoners who eat out regularly and which are becoming increasingly familiar around the country as its disciples spread the word. There were a couple of Continental ringers in there as well but these interlopers seemed in the spirit of the rest of the menu.

I’m not a big fan of liquid courses unless it’s a Dry Martini followed by another one and on my first few sips of a Potato Soup with Duck Foie Gras I’d thought I’d not ordered well. It was only as the torchon of liver began to melt and I’d swirled it into the soup that the dish made sense. With each mouthful (eaten in the manner of Greg Wallace, of course) you got the relatively bland taste of the potato soup then un petit choc from the sweet, rich liver: starch and fat in perfect harmony.

Mussels were done in the mariniere style and were of the small and sweet - as oppose to big and meaty - variety. The care in the preparation was evident by the liquor left behind which was not full of grit and too salty as it usually is. The only way of improving the dish would have been to serve some decent crusty bread with it – the homemade focaccia wasn’t up to the job, good though it was.

Sometimes it’s the little things that show how good a place is and the fact that the kitchen asked if I’d like a break before my next course was evidence of some joined-thinking in the kitchen, even in the middle of service. Speaking of which, if two people can handle a busy dining room with such smiley efficiency why do some places struggle with two or three times that number of staff?

In retrospect, given the generously sized dishes – hey, you’re not in that there London now - Faggot and Mashed Potatoes was possibly the wrong dish. But in many ways it was the right one. The Faggot was a fairly loose mince of pork and presumably its offal, wrapped in caul fat that had taken on some colour during cooking. Rather than a dense, one-note meatball, this was a light almost dainty expression of the form. It was sitting on some smooth, buttery mash and covered in a light onion gravy. The dish as a whole belied its appearance and was actually pretty refined. Not bad for under nine quid.

I had to try the chips and the kitchen kindly did me a bowlful. Unfortunately, they were of the fat variety and really needed crisping up to be anywhere near acceptable. Still, it didn’t stop me having a couple of scoops of Praline Ice Cream for sweet which was everything I hoped it would be i.e. excellent.

By now, the sun was getting low in the sky and it looked as if it might start snowing again. Much as I would have liked to have been trapped there until teatime I had a home to go to and so, suitably insulated against the cold by a thick belt of carbohydrate, I waddled off very happily but with a part of me wishing that I had a place like The Magdalen Arms at the end of my road.

Great Queen Street

Tell all your buddies That it ain't no drag

Sometimes restaurants lose sight of their raison d’etre and in case you’ve forgotten this is to feed, to entertain, in short, to give the patrons a jolly good time. I realised this during DH’s recent visit to Padstow. The gulf between the dismal No. 6 and the sprightly and enjoyable Margot’s was palpable. Places where the emphasis is on giving the punters a good time (dearie) are becoming more prevalent though and the latest amongst them, Great Queen Street, is the offspring of the Eagle, Anchor and Hope and last but by no means least The Fox.

I’d had the heads up about the joint a month or two ago but everything had gone quiet, then all of a sudden there’d been reviews in a London free sheet and then Fay “I’d attend the opening of a envelope” Maschler had been there twice. Time for DH to move in.

Great Queen Street is situated, somewhat incongruously (for a gastropub) in Covent Garden. The incongruity lies in the fact that in an area where the majority of restaurants pin their flag unashamedly to the pole of mediocrity this place stands out like a…well a Welsh Bengali at a BNP Rally. The design is firmly in the mould of Eagle/A&H type gastropubs with plenty of stripped wood and dim lighting to go around. There’s also a longish bar where you can get the full menu.

With an appetite made keen by a well made DM at the Renaissance Chancery Court I did the only thing I could and went for double starters. Cured Gurnard with leeks and aioli read better than it looked or tasted. The taste of the fish was killed by a heavy hand on the salt shaker and the aioli was non-existent. Much better was the smoked eel which came in the generous form of two large fillets. The Cucumber accompaniment was lightly and sympathetically pickled.

The Ox Heart with Beetroot and Horseradish was one of those dishes where you wonder why it isn’t on every British menu. Tender, meaty, subtly Offaly, it had been cooked with care. The cubed beetroot with horseradish provided the necessary counterpoint. Chips cooked in duck-fat didn’t taste like it and had a slightly tough skin but were tasty nonetheless. The pud list is a bit small and it didn’t have HP favourite: helado. Luckily a special of Muscat crème brulee proved a suitable substitute.

Despite being pretty full, two or three staff managed to keep the service rolling along and indulge my endless questions about the restaurant’s origins. As an antidote to the overpriced and the pretentious Great Queen Street deserves to succeed and provides the only sensible option in this neck of the woods.