COAST: COASTING

British people don't like seafood.  Fact.
Sure they like their Fish and Chips and there's nothing wrong with that - for at least one Hermano this would be their last meal of choice - but put, say, a whole fish in front of someone and there would be two possible reactions:  "What's that ?" or "Take it away, take it away - it's looking at me !"  The reaction in Spain or France or Italy would be "yum".

Coast is a newish restaurant which promises to bring a taste of the seaside, Cornwall in this case to the grotty environs of NW1. It has an all-white interior which is not a good sign - I can't remember a good meal in a white restaurant - and has some suitably sea-related doodlings on the walls.  There's a big chiller cabinet running the length of the room which makes it look something  like an Estate Agents.  Not unusual given that Estate Agents nowadays look something  like bar/restaurants.

For a fish restaurant the menu didn't really convince and had us desperately searching for something which appealed.  "FROM THE GRILL" was mostly meat.  The one whole fish option, Bream, was in fact fried which didn't sound very appetising.  Maybe this is why things are described as pan-fried.  So much less prosaic.

Prosaic was also the password of the day when it came to our starters.  Fishcake came looking like a Scotch Egg and had been deep fried.  The crust was thin and crisp and not bad but the filling was underseasoned and all, er, filler. The Cucumber and Fennel salad was a bit limp and if there was any sorrel in the sauce, well, you can call me Uncle Jaap.

Fish Soup tasted mostly of Fennel and very little of fish.  The accompanying Rouille was underpowered and too polite.  Like the Fish Cake these were dishes that would turn up at your average credit crunch dinner party (Background music: Lady Eleanor.  Topics  of conversation: House Prices, Crime, Swine Flu.  Husband Says: "It really is amazing how far Marjorie can make a little bit of Salmon stretch.")

An odd smell heralded our main courses.  Not from HS's Fish Pie which like his Fish Soup seemed pretty bereft of any piscine components (undemanding,  polite, harmless – take your pick).  
No, the pong seemed to be coming from the chunks of Chorizo which had been mixed with my Mussels.  They were just inappropriate in this context but HS thought something was off.  Any way, I lived.

The Chorizo had leeched its oil making an unpleasant slick on top of  the cider cream liquor.   Not a sauce you wanted to mop up greedily with lots of bread.  The Mussels were fine even if the serving was parsimonious.  Chips were lukewarm and were of the dreaded “skin-on” variety, beloved of lazy kitchens everywhere.  As traduced versions of classic British and Belgium dishes go, these two were well up there.

At this point exit visas were imminent but turning down HS’s suggestion to wander up to Marine Ices – the walk up Camden High Street would have been like heaping  humiliation upon humiliation – I decided to try out Coast’s homemade ice creams. And whaddya know ?  They were great – good texture and great taste especially the Raspberry Ripple.  So good in fact I wondered if they were in fact homemade.  But as the waitress at High Timer so philosophically put it:  “they are homemade – but not made here”

By the time we’d settled up and left  the place was filling up with groups of happy locals.  So obviously Coast is fulfilling some gap in the local restaurant market.  On the way home we wondered what it could be.  Suddenly the lightbulb dangling over HS switched on:  “it’s a Fish Restaurant for people who don’t like fish” he said. Given that British people don't like seafood our meal now made perfect sense.

YUM CHA: DIM SUM FOR THE ENGLISH

I was in the lift at work the other day. An Australian lass was chatting to her oppo, an English lass, about eating out.

“Anywhere around here to get decent Yum Cha ?”
“Yum Cha ?”
“Yeah – Yum Cha”
“What’s that ?”
“You know - Chinese food, like Dumplings”
“Oh, you mean Dim Sum”
“No, Yum Cha”
“I think you’ll find it’s called Dim Sum”
“No, I think you’ll find it’s called Yum Cha”
“No, you’re wrong, actually, it’s called…“ etc etc

Anyway, the situation escalated, talons were bared, clothes were ripped and there was a lot of jello to clean up afterwards. Once I’d cooled down a tad it got me wondering about the difference between the two phrases. The Brits go for Dim Sum, which is what you eat, but the Aussies go for Yum Cha, which is what you do. I consulted with my boss, who’s from Hong Kong, and he said Yum Cha is what they say over there. And you know what, he’s absolutely right. No doubt or debate about it. So I went for Dim Sum the other day to a place called Yum Cha and it confused the feck out of me.

Dim Sum, sorry, Yum Cha is situated on the stretch of Chalk Farm Road just before it becomes like an Hieronymus Bosch depiction of hell: that fire they had here earlier in the year – it went out far too soon. Anyway grim High Street aside my mood was much lightened by the fine weather. So fine, that even at midday the outside tables were already filled with people sucking on beers and smoking like it had just got banned or something.

Inside, the restaurant was pretty café like and functional with, very incongruously, Reggaeton thumping out of the sound system (A ella le gusta la gasolina indeed). A quick word with one of the helpful staff ruined it for all the kids but I’m sure their parents were silently applauding me (go on, you give ‘em what for).

The Dim Sum menu is a pretty bog-standard affair with all the usual suspects present and correct. But despite this, or maybe because of this, the execution wasn’t bad at all. I suspect most or all of the stuff is brought in – it has to be at these prices - but it’s all cooked to order and is a notch above Chinatown’s increasingly grotty norm.

This was most noticeable in the Baked Char Sui Puff which usually comes, cold, at the start of the meal. These ones came later into the meal and appeared to have been freshly baked and had a good flaky pastry. The Crystal Scallop Dumpling and the Dried Shrimp and Mushroom Cheung Fun were pretty good too.

Taro Croquette were a bit leaden and the tasteless Siew Long Bao gave up their precious cargo of stock as soon as they were lifted.

There weren’t any specials so I went for a couple of the more unusual dishes from the Cold section. Spicy Duck Tongue was in fact lots of duck tongues which were as promised, spicy. They were good and crunchy and oddly morerish. Japanese Baby Octopus were best described as, er, a texture thing. Tea was on the menu as Pu-Er but actually it was ok and although it cost a few quid there were unlimited refills. Like most DS meals it was over quickly but didn’t leave a bad taste in the mouth. And the prices are reasonable too.

I like making pointless analogies so here’s another one: Dim Sum joints as Premiership Football Teams. Assuming Hakkasan is Chelsea (the loathsome Yauatcha being Man Ure, naturally) and say Royal China is Portsmouth, then Yum Cha is probably a Wigan or a West Brom. Not likely to challenge for anything but probably going to stay up. The poor Chinatown examples are of course Newcastle or Tottenham (tee hee).

Post Script. The English girl won by the way. The Aussie girl was fit but she was giving far too much weight away.

YORK AND ALBANY: STAND AND DELIVER

After we’d finished our meal at the new Gordon Ramsay/Angela Hartnett gaff York and Albany, a box of popcorn appeared with the bill. We tried a few found, they were pretty good and hungrily burrowed down into the box. All of a sudden, HS gave a Richard Pryoresque start (Heeeyyy…)*. They’d padded the box out – what a swizz. Just like our meal HS harrumphed.

Apart from Plane Food we’ve been to all the London restaurants in the Gordon Ramsay empire and this was our most disappointing experience to date (although a very bad one at GR@Claridges when it opened still makes us shiver with dread) . Even more so when we found out Ms Hartnett was in the kitchen: she’d made a table-side appearance to apologise for some chips we sent back. We weren’t expecting the quality of ingredients and level of refinement that we’d found with our recent meal at Murano but we were expecting something more than the average, expensive gastropub experience we got.

An amuse of a quite liquid Chicken Liver mousse served with some melba toast was a decent start, although, as we found with a few dishes at Murano it was salted a bit too enthusiastically.

I thougt my Deep Fried Lambs Tongues ok – better at least than HS liked his grilled Mackerel. He thought the fish overcooked and a bit mushy. My lamb had been deep fried then sliced so you got a bit of the crunch of the breadcrumbs without too much oiliness and the salad worked quite well with it. Lamb Tongues seem quite expensive these days though.

We’d added in an extra starter (naturally) of Pumpkin Risotto which they’d kindly split for us. Coming after a textbook example at Murano what we got was a very poor facsimile. The texture was way too thick and stodgy and while the gorgonzola was good it dominated the other flavours in the dish. Even worse, there were unshelled pumpkin seeds scattered over the dish. They had been roasted, but were not edible – believe me I tried – an odd way to get texture into the dish.

Moving on to the main courses felt more akin to doing something out of duty rather than any sense of pleasure or anticipation.

I loathe it when a piece of steak is mucked about with. There isn’t anything you should do to it other than cook it and leave it. My rib-eye had been cooked slightly over the requested rare but then had been sliced into quarters then doused in an over-reduced jus which just obliterated what little taste the steak had. The roasted onion and little mushroom and marrow toast weren’t bad but the wilted watercress tasted as if it had been dressed in seawater.

HS’s underhung partridge just elicited a shrug from the great man of letters. The chips showed scant signs or taste of truffle and were undercooked so they went back.

We battled on for a rather prosaic Manzanilla trifle which HS, after a few bites, gave up on and wondered why they would use such a sherry for a trifle. A mystery we were totally unconcerned about solving. A bigger mystery, though, is how someone so obviously talented (in our view) as Angela Harnett could be associated with somewhere so totally underwhelming.

*See Richard Pryor - Live in Concert

MARKET: FORCES AT WORK

A few years ago, on a food website (Egullet, I think) Fergus Henderson agreed to do a Q&A session with the members.

I asked him why, at that time no one in the country was replicating what St John was doing. His answer was a slightly terse “you should probably ask them” but he did admit that there was more room in the market for his style of cooking and he was about to take advantage of it by opening St John Bread & Wine.

Move on about five years and that same question would seem very foolish indeed as there are now a plethora or restaurants, not only in London, but around the country, which have been spawned by what I call “The School of St John” many run by ex alum of the mother ship on St John St itself.

Not just Fergus though. I think a huge genuflection needs to be given by many of the chefs in these places to Mark Hix whose promulgation of cuisine a la Brit has been tireless and with Fergus’ influence has led to what I genuinely believe is the first wave of uniquely British restaurants.

Of course, when you have so many restaurants now cooking a certain style you are going to get hits ( Magdalene, Anchor & Hope, Hereford Rd) you are going to get misses (Arbutus) and you are going you going to get hit & miss (The Rivington Grill which seems to lurch between decent and dreadful on a daily basis)

I am delighted to say that MARKET in Camden is one of the good ones. In fact, it is one of the very good ones.

Opened recently by the ex chef of Medcalf’s in Exmouth Market, it sits amongst all those rather grim restaurants on Camden Parkway and was, when we arrived for our 8.30pm table, already packed with Christmas revellers.

Still, it is a small, pleasant room and we had a decent table away from a well behaved group out for a company dinner.

The menu with its recognisable typeface and paucity of description is both a reminder of St J and a welcome relief after meals in the good old US of Stateside where there are more descriptives than a Wilkie Collins novel.

It reads well too and as we sipped a glass of Proseco it took us a good ten minutes to make our choices.

To begin, HP went with a special of white pudding with a fried duck egg. What came was like no white pudding that I have ever tried. That’s not a bad thing as they are normally like the retarded sibling of their glistening black brothers, but this was excellent. More like a rillettes that had been formed into a sausage and fried. With the bright yellow yolk of the egg to dip it into, I was hard pressed to persuade HP to give me a taste.

My own starter of whitebait was as good example of the little fried beauties as you are likely to get. A small ramekin flowing over with small whole fish, floured and fried until crispy.

For my main course I wanted to have the Chicken & Ham Pie. The Christmas party, damn them, had ordered the last ones. A great shame as, when I saw them being brought out they looked like things which would have given Desperate Dan reason to pause.

Still, my own second choice of onglet was perfectly cooked and came with a suitably fiery aioli. My only concern is that the chips with it were already plated so they softened to a mush in the juices of the meat. HP thinks this is a good thing. I do not. You take your pick.

HP’s main course was the winner, a large double chop of Middlewhite on a small stew of vegetables and puy lentils. Fabulous meat with a slab of tasty fat and crisp, crunchy crackling.

The side order of chips he ordered came in a bowl and showed how good they could be when not allowed to soak.

Both dishes went well with a Tempus Two Tempranillo which was one of the only wines I found vaguely palatable from my recent-ish visit to The Hunter Valley. It was £17.50 on a small but well priced list of mainly New World wines.

For pudding, HP selection was as always, ice cream. A decent chocolate and a small scoop of cinnamon which he asked if he could taste from the specials menu. It was ice cream what else can I say?

My choice was better. Spotted Dick, that most frightening of puddings for those who remember school in the 70’s. Here though, it was, as indeed was everything else, very well made, surprisingly un cannon ball like and served with an exemplary custard.

Both the service and the kitchen seemed to be working with calm efficiency despite the fact that most tables were occupied and they deserved the 12.5% service they added to the bill to bring it to £74.

Now, given some of my recent travel destinations, £74 is the equivalent of a week’s hotel and food. But, for London and for cooking of this quality, I represents pretty good value.

It would seem, given the arrival of places like Market, that my question to Fergus should not have been “why?” more like “when?” It was, it appears just a matter of time.

GILGAMESH: LESS AN EPIC MORE A TRAGEDY

Let’s make this abundantly clear. I don’t often take pictures in/of urinals. Well, leastways not since the court order. But, I did tonight because the gent’s at Gilgamesh is a truly extraordinary place in which to point Percy at the porcelain.

In fact Gilgamesh is extraordinary for so many reasons let alone it’s gold plated khazi.

It is extraordinary for being the largest restaurant in the UK with a possible 700 covers.

It is extraordinary for being the result of £12million worth of investment by three Israeli business men inspired initially by the Buddha Bar in Paris but who, after a visit to The British Museum thought that ancient Babylon would be the perfect theme for a Pan Asian restaurant.

It is extraordinary that all of this is in what used to be The Stables in Camden Town

It is extraordinary for being the place that Ian Pengelley, the Icarus of London restaurants should try and repair his wings after the hubris and the crash and burn that was his eponymous liaison with Gordon Ramsay

Most of all, however, it is a place that is extraordinary for prising such a vast amount of money from you for cooking ( if that is the term ) of such ineptitude that everyone involved should be ashamed to the very core of their Babylonian slippers.

I like Ian Pengelley. I can’t claim to know him but, he always comes over as an affable chap on TV and when I read that he was going to be in charge of the kitchen here, I thought it would be the perfect location for me and a dearest friend to have supper.

The location of the restaurant seemed truly bizarre situated right next to Camden Lock amongst all those tatty shops selling tat. But, all became clear when the host explained that one of owners owns Camden Lock. That’s just as well then. He can probably afford to lose the money when this place closes in six months.

The room is vast. I am not talking big, enormous or huge. I am talking the size of a small country. My friend had arrived before me and had been plonked at a table in the middle of the room. When I turned up, she was visiting the aforementioned bathrooms. She assured me that the women’s bathrooms were pretty extraordinary too. I don’t have pictures to prove it.

So, there we were like two ink dots on a sheet of A4 paper in the middle of this Babylonian sneeze of a restaurant. By the time we left, there were perhaps another four tables occupied. I suspect that you could have another 60 tables occupied and still feel like you were dining in an empty room.

They have had a “ friends and family day’ and a “ press day” where all the nationals ( the usual suspects ) came to fill their snouts at the trough of free food. But, this was only their third full public day. They told us they had been full the previous two days. So, that is nearly 1400 people wandering around London wondering where the hell £120 went and half a dozen journo’s thanking God that they never have to put their hand in their own pocket for a meal.

The menu is limited. Limited in oh so many ways. There are some salads, some Sushi and Sashimi, some Dim Sum and some main courses. Prices are high with salads being between £10-12, Sushi between £6-11, Dim Sum around the £5 mark and the main courses over £20.

That’s about the same price as Hakkasan or Roka. Unfortunately, the cooking is more like The Jade Garden at the bottom of The Goswell Rd.

We ordered a bit from each part of the menu to try as wide a variety as possible and then sat back for a few minutes chat before thinking about eating. No such luck. Within about 2 minutes of ordering, food began to arrive and arrive and arrive until 80% of our dishes were on the table.

I asked the waitress if Ian Pengelley was actually in the kitchen or had just designed the menu. She assured me that he looked at every plate before it was sent out to the table. If that is the case then he really has lost the plot and the Gordon experience has left his abilities in the kitchen shot to hell. This was food that ranged from OK to bland to limp to soggy to nasty to “ I am going to hunt you and your family down like Robert Mitchum in Cape Fear”

They also said they had 36 chefs in the kitchen. I can only assume they were watching the World cup.

There seemed to be no particular order to when the food arrived. First up some soft and chewy prawn crackers, followed by Har Gau that was no better than you can buy in any supermarket in Chinatown. Garlic chive and mushroom dumplings actually showed some signs of a decent kitchen but the arrival of a flaccid papaya salad with a betel leaf tempura which was a tough as Sumo’s jockstrap soon dragged the level of the meal back down again.

The edamame snacks we ordered to begin with arrived after all of this and just as we got a potion of crispy squid served in a twist of a Japanese newspaper ( a schtick he first came up with at E& O, I think ) The peas were fine. Hard to ruin really. Not so the squid. Leathery enough to require conversation to stop while we chewed, this was a real travesty of what can be a truly lovely dish.

Two parsimonious slices each of yellowtail and tuna sashimi arrived atop a ludicrous bowl of dry ice which bubbles menacingly but pointlessly and a tuna roll was made with nothing more than tuna mayo sandwich filling. Really very, very nasty indeed.

The only high in a series of defining lows was a dragon roll of unagi and avocado which, while not screaming fresh did not, at least, scream “ throw me away”

A sweet salad of pork with scallops was better. The pork was crispy and sweet with honey. The scallops, a tad overcooked were fresh.

The other main course was a Nobu stylee Miso marinade Sea Bass which my friend quite liked but I thought was slimey.

So, that was it. All served lickety split. In fact we were in and out in under an hour and twenty minutes. That is Nobu speed without Nobu quality of cooking.

The bill was incorrect as they had reduced prices just before tonight’s service in reaction to comments on the previous two nights. They changed it immediately but, suffice to say, that even with the reduction it still came to a horrendous £124 for two including service which was fine but damn well should have been given that there were staff there for 700 and there were 20 people in the room. We also ordered a bottle of Picpoul at £15 not badly priced on what was a menu with nosebleed inducing mark ups and little imagination

This is amongst the worst meals I have ever eaten in London

There was Gordon Ramsay’s at Claridges, the biggest flop since Howard the Duck.

There was Restaurant Tom Aiken where happiness goes to die and where you win a prize if you can tell a starter from a main course from a dessert.

There was Chinatmani where I suggested they change one of the names of the dishes on the menu to “slop” to save time

Gilgamesh is right up there amongst them. It is by far the most stunningly misconceived restaurant I can recall in recent memory and even more remarkable as I think it marks the death knell to the major league career of a chef who could and should be offering much better

I would rather suck my brain out with a straw than ever eat here ( if that’s truly what we did) again