WRIGHT BROTHER SOHO: RETURN OF THE NATIVE

Autumn is clearly the best time for anyone with even the slightest interest in food. Short days and bad weather means no going outside for me (I might catch a chill) unless it’s to visit the pub or a restaurant. It also means Game, Big Sunday Roasts and most importantly the Native Oyster season.

For me Oysters are up there with Jamón Ibérico as one of the great foodstuffs of the World and the Native variety one of the best you can get anywhere.

Until fairly recently it was difficult to satisfy a sudden urge to down a dozen on the half-shell with a beer or glass of crisp Muscadet. Now we have a number of places in the capital where you can pop in sans reservation and indulge oneself although in my view it’s still not nearly enough.

At the more tony end of the Oyster bar spectrum there are places like the estimable Bentley’s, J Sheekey’s and Scott’s. A little more casual is Wright Brothers who just happen to supply most, but not all, of the restaurants in London with bivalves. In addition to their Borough Market bar they’ve now opened a branch just off Carnaby Street in London’s bustling West End.

It’s a little hidden away inside Kingly Court although frustratingly you can see in from Kingly Street but can’t enter from there. Let’s hope this doesn’t limit foot traffic.

The original restaurant gets horribly crowded, especially towards the end of the week so it was nice to see the new place had a lot more room. There’s a small area just by the entrance where you can walk in and plonk yourself at a table or at the bar. Further back there’s a slightly bigger more conventional space with tables. All the action though is in the basement where you can watch your Oysters get shucked or watch your food get cooked. It does get a little hot down there so beware.

When you’re jonesing for Oysters the only difficult decision will be when to stop eating them. In my case it was after a couple of mixed platters of Natives and some extra Kumamotos. Speaking of which I’ve only ever seen this variety in the US before now but Wright Brothers import the sprats from Japan and cultivate them over here. They’re small but have a wonderful briny taste with a length that goes on and on. Of the other two varieties I tried I marginally preferred the Colchester’s to the Duchy’s but, you know, they’re all good.

In addition to the Oysters there’s a rather magnificent looking Fruits de Mer with the components available separately and some simple short order dishes along with a few daily specials.

My Razor Clams came pre-cooked and cold and though fresh there’s not really a point to these blighters unless grilled with plenty of garlic and olive oil or maybe made into a cerviche.

Whitebait and Squid were much better: accurately deep-fried and served whilst still piping hot and crisp. A tartare sauce with the fish could have been a little looser in texture but was still a decent, perky accompaniment. The other stuff going out looked pretty good too but for me it’s always going to be about the Oysters.

For afters I liked the sound of a Gelupo Lemon Sorbet but as the shop itself is only five minutes away it seemed a shame not to visit the mothership.

That’s the nice thing about the West End these days - as there is a critical mass of decent places to eat you can indulge in a bit of progressive dining. Indeed the very next day I was back at the bar of Wright Brothers with some friends, knocking back Kumamotos and copitas of Manzanilla as a prelude to a visit to Bob Bob Ricard for Vintage Champagne.

Hey, it’s Dos Hermanos’ World – I just live in it.

WILTON'S: TO THE MANNER BORN

As Fathers are wont to do ours filmed a lot of the Christmas festivities: the opening of the presents, the drinking of the Champagne; the Christmas Dinner, the drinking of the Champagne; the lighting of the Pudding, the drinking…well you get the idea.

I was watching the little production Baba had made the other day when I caught myself wondering who the lardy was stuffing his face and looking like a beached walrus waiting for his next feed. Not HS, he was playing the impenetrable Wii Pokemon with our nephew. Dear reader, that Jabba was me.

Time catches up with all of us and an excess of rich food and alcohol hadn’t burned off like what it oughta. A little regime change was in order. So for two weeks after Christmas (impressive huh ?) I stayed off the firewater. God, it was boring though - there’s only so many bottles of Fentiman’s, cups of tea and glasses water a man can drink. Enough was enough.

Having already booked Wilton’s just before Christmas it seemed like a suitable venue to swan-dive off the wagon I’d been marooned on. So on a cold January evening I made my way through Mayfair whose streets were seemingly unaffected by the snow falling in less tony burbs.

I don’t know how old Rules – London’s oldest restaurant – is, but Wilton’s surely pushes it close. And like Rules, possibly even more so, once inside with your derrière parked in the snug fitting chairs, you feel completely cosseted against the outside world. This is the sort of place for people who find J Sheekey a bit risqué and Dean Street Townhouse, well, unspeakable.

I’d actually visited because the Head Chef of just a few months was Andrew Turner, someone whose cooking I enjoyed at The Landau a couple of years ago. I was interested to see what he could bring to what I already knew would be a menu chock full of classic Fish and Game dishes. Well the answer was, apparently, not a lot. Save for a tasting menu that failed to set the pulses racing and to which most of the other diners gave little more than a cursory glance, it was business as usual. I suspect that’s the way the regulars like it. Where this leaves a creative force like Mr Turner I’m not entirely sure.

When confronted with a menu like this there is little point in trying to finesse things. Keep it simple and go for the best always works for me. A dozen Colchester Natives were decent-sized specimens with that long, minerally length typical of the variety. A lot of the briny juice which adds to the pleasure of eating Oysters had been lost when opening them, but combined with half a bottle of Krug it was hardly slumming it.

From one classic to another. Dover Sole doesn’t appear on too many restaurant menus, maybe owing to its frightening cost. Here, I reckon they don’t have too many problems shifting them. The fish had been grilled on the bone and was pretty much perfect. Thick and firm with quite a subtle flavour it put me in mind of seafood dishes in Spain where the preparation and service is similarly minimalist. A blob of tartare sauce was creamy but a tad over-acidulated – the last glass of the Krug was a better match.


Woodcock is one of the most prized of the game birds. A relatively short season and comparative rarity means it doesn’t come cheap but if it’s available it’s always worth ordering. The meat was gamey without being overly so, such that the taste of the flesh is masked. The guts, traditionally spread on toast were served here as a small quenelle. The head was rent in twain so the brains could be sucked out (or crunched as in my case. Speaking of which, this is usually the most challenging part of the bird tastewise but in this case it was quite mild.

The combo was finished off with some decent bacon, fried breadcrumbs and a bread sauce that had a good consistency but needed more of a clove ‘kick’, although that word seems wholly inappropriate in a restaurant like Wilton’s.

Of course, once I’d made a rule about not getting all clever with the menu I had to go and break it by not ordering something simple like Ice Cream or Trifle, instead choosing the mysterious Chef’s Dessert of the day. Unfortunately it wasn’t a very good pudding of today or indeed any day. An assembly of Poached Pears, Ice Cream and Chocolate sauce was let down by pears that were still hard. Next time I’m going for the crumble.

Pudding aside though, I had a fine time at Wilton’s. Service was predictably good and the prices, although aimed firmly at Mayfair wallets, were commensurate with ingredients that were of exemplary quality and that were treated properly. By the end of my meal, I was so cosy and well-fed that it was a bit of a wrench to drag me and my corpulent arse out into the cold. Ok, I may be getting old but I think I’ve discovered the perfect restaurant for my retirement years…interspersed with the odd visit to Rules when I fancy a bit of excitement.

GREEN’S: AROUND THE GILLS

HS was talking about his favourite foodie experiences the other day which got me thinking about mine. Well, there’s the obvious ones: supping the Perfect Pint in a good pub; standing at a bar in Madrid quaffing Mahou, eating silky slices of Jamón Ibérico de Bellota and crunching pert little Gambas. Stuffing my face with Haddock and Chips in front of the TV with my Dad is up there as well. All pretty standard stuff.

Most of all, though I spend my Summers looking forward to the start of the Oyster season. God, I love Oysters, especially the Native variety which, for me are one of the great foodstuffs of the UK. Between September and April, on most Saturdays, you’ll find me knocking back a dozen, sometimes more, of the delicious Ostrea edulis in Bentley's or wherever there’s a spare seat at an Oyster bar. What a shame then that my experience at the newly opened Green’s Restaurant and Oyster Bar was so mediocre and disappointing.

Located in the old Lloyd’s Bank building in Cornhill this should have been the setting for a magnificent seafood-fest – think great piles of Shellfish, chilled crisp White Wines and acres of napery. But the owners have somehow conspired to make it feel lacklustre and corporate and more on a par with the neighbouring Green Door where I endured a dire meal just over a year ago. A large bar area could have been a Wetherspoons (which incidentally specialises in converting old banks to pubs) and the restaurant, where I ate, felt more akin to an airport lounge, albeit a Club Class one.

Although DH weren’t knocked out by either of his recent openings, Terence Conran, to give him his due, would have made a lot more of the big space, and I dare say have produced better food. This was the restaurant’s opening day but the problems seemed more fundamental than first night nerves.

I was hoping a stiff £2.50 cover charge might have brought a little more than the dull reheated bread rolls, last seen doing sterling service at cheapo hotel buffets the World over, but no luck. Small things matter, you see, because they contribute to the whole.

I had even less luck with the Oysters. After much too-ing and fro-ing it turned out they’d run out of one of the two Native varieties they’d had. “We had an Oyster competition yesterday” explained my waitress to which there really was no answer. Ditto, the reason my White Wine was lukewarm – their fridge was not big enough. Hard to argue with such cast iron logic - it was like having a debate with John Stuart Mill.

I must have been inadvertently wearing my disgusted of Tunbridge Wells face because the FOH decided to comp the Oysters which was a nice but somewhat OTT gesture. Unhappily for all parties concerned the Oysters, when they did turn up, weren’t worth the wait.

I’m used to seeing my Oysters opened in front of me and I’m always a tad suspicious when they aren’t. Now, call me paranoid, but these specimens seemed odd. They weren’t off – I’m still standing – but they seemed to lack any of the Oyster liquid you’d normally get. The flavour wasn’t great either which I would put down to the earliness of the season. But would it have hurt them to present the Oysters in classic fashion on a nice large tray rather than cram them into a bowl ? You’d never get old Tel treating the poor bivalves like this.

Never mind Sir Terence though, even a cack-handed old fool like me could make a better stab at cooking the piece of Wild Halibut that truly did passeth all understanding. After unsustainable fishing, not paying due care and attention to a good piece of fish is a big no-no for me and the reason I don’t order fish more often in restaurants. The steak hadn’t been overcooked but had been left under the pass to desiccate.

Hollandaise had been pre-prepped, portioned and left to go cold. Chips were sent back for a second frying but were still fat and nasty. In an empty dining room with no pressure this was poor cooking by any standards.

I noted last year how dire the majority of restaurants in the Square Mile are, but given the (slow) rise in standards elsewhere in the capital I had hoped that this would somehow rub off. It seems though that a combination of greedy restaurateurs, expense account dinners and indifferent diners has meant that nothing much has changed. Mark this down as yet another lousy City rip-off.

J SHEEKEY OYSTER BAR: GOING NATIVE

I was walking down St Martin's Lane the other day when a cyclist going the wrong way almost ran into me. As he swerved past I shouted “Get Off And Milk It !” a very common and I think witty phrase to be hurled at all cyclists when I was young. The cyclist turned his head and instead of looking angry he had a half-bemused/half quizzical look on his face which was not what I was expecting at all. I suppose this is what happens when you use forty year-old insults.

I was on my way to J Sheekey Oyster Bar, a small annexe to the main restaurant in St Martin's Court. The style is very similar to the bar next door: wood panels with photos of various thesps, a low ceiling giving a cosy, somewhat cramped feel and in the centre a big horseshoe-shaped bar. There's some waiters taking orders and serving drinks and a couple of chefs shucking the oysters and preparing the shellfish.

The menu is very familiar too offering a good range of raw and cooked stuff. Of course I was just there for the Oysters. I love Oysters and have been eating them for years and years but like good wine and turning left on an aeroplane once you've tasted English Natives it's hard to go back to any other variety.

A dozen West Mersea natives were not cheap but the best I've had this season – the cold weather seems to improve the taste. Although not possessing the length of some Whitstable natives I had last year I'm sure they will improve. I did get one bad one which luckily I could smell before having a chance to scarf it down. It's only about the sixth duff one I've ever had so I'm not doing too badly. It was immediately replaced for two fresh ones without question.

Although I liked my Oysters the experience wasn't as enjoyable as my current favourite bar, Bentley's. There you get some decent bread to nibble on while you wait and because the bar is smaller you can have more banter with the guy (shuckers always seem to be male) opening your bivalves. Still I'm sure it's going to be a big success especially as scoring a res for the restaurant is proving increasingly problematical.

Rammed when I arrived everyone seemed to leave en masse, on the dot, at a quarter past seven. I did fear my personal grooming regime was lacking of late, but all was made clear when I looked at the back of the menu. Altogether now: Mama Mia, here I go again, My my, how can I resist you...(repeat until you lose the will to live).

CORRIGAN'S: BRINGING HIS "A" GAME TO THE GROSVENOR

Be Any Good. You might think this would be the credo underlying The Dos Hermanos Philosophy of Restaurants™. Close, but no banana, my friend. Just Give A Damn would be a lot more accurate.

We’ve been to plenty of restaurants where the food has been objectively good but the atmosphere and welcome have been sticks-up-their-arses frosty. Conversely, there are many places where Michelin may not be visiting any time soon but, goddammit, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be right at that moment.

Even if the food at Corrigan’s, the eponymously named Mayfair restaurant wasn’t all that I’d still be inclined to like the place. How could I not ? The welcome and service was friendly: from the young lady serving me who wanted to bring me the excellent Soda Bread all through the meal, through to the sommelier who insisted on a little vertical tasting of artisanal grappas. The room is great too: very comfortable, lit just right and crucially, no music. Despite this being their first day of business (after a soft opening week) things appeared to be running as if they had been open for years. Always a good sign.

Fortunately, the food’s terrific too. The menu had me groaning with pleasure – not a nice sound, believe me – but then you don’t see dishes like Game Broth with Livers on Toast or Fried Chorizo, Fennel and Apple or a Salad of Game with Romesco Sauce every day. My starter was beyond workaday too, for in amongst the beautifully briny Colchester Native Oysters and sweet raw Clams was a comped dish of a Cerviche of Razor Clams: a lovely, zingy way to prepare that much underused bivalve.

There was more evidence of deft preparation with terrific ingredients in some slices of sweetly porky suckling pig sausages that were topped by a lightly cooked oyster and some slivers of crisp lamb tongue.

My long position on pork was entrenched with Crubeens: brined Pigs Trotters which had been shredded, coated in panko and deep fried to give a sort of Irish take on the croqueta. As a nod to the Iberian Peninsula and just in case you felt a little pork lite, there were some slices of Jamón from Jabugo draped over the top. A little relish of Horseradish and Beetroot provided the contrast to all that porcine richness.

The menu is game heavy, and why not when it’s one of the best food products from these isles. My benchmark for Venison had up until now been the excellent stuff at the Pot Kiln but the rack of Venison special at Corrigan’s was even better: seared on the outside and a beautifully rich red colour within, the meat also had that perfect gaminess which provides a complexity of taste that raises it above the level of just another hunk of protein.

On the side, and possibly one of the most indulgent yet delicious accompaniments you are likely to get in any restaurant, anywhere, was a small cottage pie which had been made with an oh-so-rich mixture of Venison meat and its offal. Believe me if it was any better it would be illegal.

That cottage pie should have been enough to finish me off but despite my advancing years I’m still an Hermano and somewhere North of abstemiousness but South of piggery lay the Lime and Cheese Souffle. A lot of places can’t really make this dish but happily for me Corrigan’s have a master Souffle maker in residence. It was supermodel light with none of that claggy egginess that afflicts lesser specimens. A light marscapone sauce, which added a bit of richness, was poured into the centre. A small scoop of Marscapone ice cream and an extra one of Sauternes (well if you don’t ask, you don’t get) book ended the Souffle.

What else ? Well, there were some good nibbles beforehand of cheesy, crispy things and olives that had been stuffed with goat’s cheese, bread crumbed and deep-fried (how could I have forgotten). Wine is usefully available by the carafe (250 or 500ml) and the staff will happily doggy bag your PFs in foil if you’ve been a fat bastard diner. Oh, and I’m definitely going back.