PIZZA EAST: EAST END PIE

Listen, there’s no secret to a good Pizza: decent dough, not too much topping and an oven set to 11. Even cack-handed me has managed it at least once in my sorry-assed life. But you’d think making one was akin to squaring the circle the way some folk go on about it. Show me a Pizza bore and I’ll show you somebody who needs a decent hunk of protein in their life.

So then, Hermano, how come you ended up in Pizza East ? Huh ? Huh ? Simple, mi amigo, it was a dark and stormy, er, Saturday lunchtime and it was the nearest restaurant to Casa DH that we hadn’t already written about.

I’d only once been in the space that Pizza East now occupies when it was the completely forgettable T Bar. PE is a little more interesting. It’s all butch Manhattan loft style with exposed pillars and industrial-strength fittings but somehow still manages to be warm. I like very much. Something I didn’t like very much were the hoards of Happy Nappy Valley Families.

Fresh from terrorising innocent French tourists in Borough Market with their McLaren strollers (weren’t these supposed to be returned) they had now moved en masse to Pizza East and unleashed their little Jeroboams and Canastas on an unsuspecting pie-eating restaurant-goer, viz me.

Now I have no problem with kids in restaurants. My own nephew and niece have been eating with their parents since they were babies and their behaviour at table is impeccable. Here, however, it was as if the parents had deemed the restaurant a suitable venue for their spawn to express themselves and awaken their creatively which took the form of running around and screaming like banshees. It was like something out Cyra McFadden’s very funny book The Serial. Except I wasn’t laughing.

Eventually and inevitably there were tears and so all the nuclear units had to sod off and were replaced by a smattering of much quieter couples and groups who had wisely decided that de-cluttering could wait until another day. Then, and only then could I sit back and glug a glass of draught Prosecco with some fat green olives with a smattering of Almonds.

Speaking of which, this thing with the tumblers is getting out of hand. I want to drink my wine out of a proper glass not some thick glass mug. I saw proper flutes being used at another table so presumably they are available if you ask. I think this is some sort of cost saving measure which made sense when my food came.

It’s been a while since I last had a pizza in a restaurant but when did they get so expensive ? Save for two of the simplest varieties, all PE’s examples all came in at, or over the ten pound mark which for a few pence of dough and a quids worth of topping is a pretty blatant way of funding ones overheads.

The pizza itself, the Duck Sausage, was ok. The dough whilst it had charred and bubbled in an authentic manner was oddly tasteless. The clumps of minced meat didn’t taste particularly ducky and as the pizza was cooling the cheese coalesced unattractively. But it tasted, well, like pizza.

Starters were poor. Fried Calamari hadn’t been given a protective cover and ended up greasy – and not in a good way. It was also pretty chewy too. The accompanying aioli was more like a timid tartar sauce.

They’d tried to ape the St John dish with my other starter but the three thin halves of Bone Marrow (why not four ?) yielded very little marrow and the parsley salad was a sad joke. The bread was just wrong. Avoid.

Three big scoops of Gelato for dessert had a nice texture and tasted of the advertised ingredients but in a slightly odd way as if the they hadn’t been properly incorporated. So Mint and Chocolate Chip tasted as if you were eating raw leaves of Spearmint with shards of cooking chocolate and the Crème Fraiche one as if you were gulping spoonfuls of the stuff from a carton. Not especially nasty, just a bit odd. Pistachio was a lot better.

Objectively, the food is pretty mediocre at Pizza East but I ended up rather enjoying myself. The service was very friendly and accommodating, I liked the space and a combination of carbs and alcohol always seems to put people in a better mood than a salad. I rolled out of there quite happy.

Try and think of it then, as a place for people who believe they’ve outgrown Pizza Express and need to go to somewhere more gourmet. They probably don’t of course but then where’s the harm in catering to those people ?

For myself, well, after many years of denial I’m gradually coming round to HS’s view that it’s all just a load of snot on toast.

BOUNDARY: LIMITED COOKING IN THE DITCH

At some point in my life I morphed from a grumpy young man to a grumpy middle aged man. I’m not sure exactly when that was. Maybe when I started staying in on a Saturday Night with some nice food and a good bottle of wine secretly hoping that no one would call or maybe the constant urge to write a stiff letter to the chairman of John Lewis bemoaning their decreasing standards of service.

Prime candidate might be the other night at Boundary restaurant when my increasingly iffy eyesight caused me to mistake Venison for Veal on the menu. It made for an embarrassing moment when the chef came up to apologise and find out why I hadn’t enjoyed the dish and had sent it back. “We don’t have any Veal” he said confused. I bowed my head in shame and vowed to get some reading glasses the next day.

To be honest it wasn’t a good piece of meat: tough, gristly and lacking the gamey flavour that had been evident in a similar cut I’d eaten at The Harwood Arms. It came with an over-pungent Juniper sauce that I could smell from several feet away and which smothered a poached quince. Some Braised Endive on the side was an Exxon Valdez in miniature.

Which is a bit of a shame really as DH had enjoyed a meal at the Albion, the caff upstairs, just before Christmas. Boundary is located two floors below and offers up the sort of Franglish menu that would be familiar from any of the old Conran gaffs. And like those places it flatters to deceive.

A pleasant basement room with exposed brickwork, sympathetic lighting and a view of the kitchen that is more intimate than is probably necessary, is manned by lots of amiable staff who do their job well and without fuss; belying the fact this was their first service.

Feeling pretty positive about the place, ordering a dozen oysters seemed like the right thing to do. Half a dozen each of French and English Natives were good although the ones from the Gironde slammed those from Perfidious Albion 6-0: briny, so very briny.

An underseasoned dish of Cuisses de Grenouilles was a bit of an oil bomb and could have done with a crisper coating. I’m not sure though that this classic preparation was an improvement over the tempura-like version at Le Bouchon Breton ten minutes away.

As a replacement for my Veal, sorry Venison, my Onglet aux échalotes (although I think it was actually Bavette) was a small but decent piece of beef with exemplary chips. But then they had to go and spoil it by smothering it in a demi-glace. Ho Hum.

They need to work a bit on the Ice Cream as well. The taste wasn’t too bad but the texture was odd. I don’t think a larger scoop would hurt their bottom lines too much either. But hey, there’s a recession on. For me, Albion remains the better, cheaper bet.

Now, where's the nearest Boots ?

ALBION: NO PERFIDY IN THE 'DITCH

In truth December is not a great time for visiting restaurants. The presence of big parties of loud-mouthed diners wearing funny hats palls somewhat and when it’s not French tourists then one has to contend with the British Office Party Outing. Why, in heaven’s name, would anyone spend an evening in the company of people they've spent a whole year avoiding in any sort of social setting ? Beats me.

Luckily, before our visit to new gaff Albion, HS had the wizard idea of popping in to Lounge Bohemia, an oasis of sanity in our nabe and bereft of any bad behaviour (shouting, being an arse, putting feet on the table - that sort of thing). After some inventive and pleasingly strong cocktails we pimp-walked our way up to Redchurch Street - currently the hippest street in London (and hence the known World).

I’m not sure how much Tel, sorry Sir Terence Conran, still owns of the D&D group to which he sold his restaurant portfolio, but the manager at Albion was very keen to emphasise that this was wholly a Conran operation. It’s an ambitious mix of restaurants, deli and hotel of which only the ground floor canteen and shop are up and running.

Of course all this matters naught to Dos Hemanos (that’s us) who are just looking for a good meal and despite mixed experiences at Conran joints in the past we were pretty impressed with our meal.

Albion has an uncomplicated menu of what is essentially British short-order cooking but what initially stood out for us were the reasonable prices – there’s nothing over a tenner. This could have translated into cost cutting in the quality of the ingredients, poor cooking or miniscule portions. It could have but didn’t.

Bread was homemade and good and yeasty. Over a bottle of Meantime Pale Ale we munched on a plate of excellent Pork Crackling. So excellent in fact that we had to have another.

Welsh Rabbit was probably the weakest dish. It needed a bit more Cheese and perhaps some extra mustard to give it some oomph. However, a salad of Beets and Goats Curd was perfectly judged: nicely dressed, tasty beets and a superior mix of interesting leaves.

Devilled Kidneys was a decent pile of the organ which had that slight whiff of the farmyard, ma non troppo. They were nice and pink inside and came in a good gravy that had us engaged in an unseemly scrap to mop up the juices (it was ever thus).

I was even more impressed with my Skirt Steak and Chips. The portion was a little petit for avowed carnivores like ourselves but the taste was great: Offaly and requiring a little extra effort to chew - a much underrated virtue and a good contrast when much food seems to be designed for people without teeth.

Chips were proper.

The fact that the cooking was pretty clean and non-greasy meant we could indulge in a couple of puds (ok – we would have had them anyway). HS’s crumble was the winner here. A bowl of Apple and Blackberry crumble was textbook stuff and came with a big spoon of clotted cream. Homemade Chocolate and Vanilla Ice Cream was not the best I’d ever had but did the job (of fulfilling my daily ice cream quota). Coffee was (like everything else) sensibly priced and much better than the tepid, brown, swill that’s usually dished up.

With friendly and efficient service and bottles of HP Sauce on the table we couldn’t really find anything to quibble about and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. I really can’t say any more so I’ll just shut up now and let you enjoy the pics.

CALLOOH CALLAY: ONE FOR THE SKINNY JEANED SLITHY TOADS OF SHOREDITCH

The bars of Shoreditch and Hoxton, it would appear, are growing up. You still get the grim new openings, places like Road Trip where over chilled, over priced lager is handed to people who neither know, nor care what they are drinking by people who neither know nor care what they are serving and places like the Hoxton Pony and Hoxton Hotel where semi decent mixing is lost in a barrage of shrieking music and appalling service.

However, with Hawksmoor still in its pomp and Lounge Bohemia providing understated excellence, there is a sign that both outlets and punters in London's hippest nabe are after something a little more challenging than just somewhere to stand around in skinny jeans.

Now, there is Callooh Callay, taking its rather silly name from Jabberwocky and its design style direct from the Lower East Side. The music is still too loud for someone in their fifth decade, but there are signs from the menu and the mixing, overseen by bar manager, Sean Wear that this is a bar with serious intentions when it comes to drinks.

A perfect Manhattan was spot on with the house bourbon, Woodford Reserve supported by the right amounts of sweet and dry vermouth and a daiquiri had the correct balance of rum and lime. My companion for the evening, Chelsea had just joined the long line of people who have been made redundant recently and needed cheering up. Something girly, boozy and pink seemed to work better than my suggestion that she “consider hooking or allowing people to eat off you”

There is still work to be done. The back bar looked interesting but small and the staff are still finding their feet. But Callooh Callay looks like it could be an interesting addition to a neighbourhood whose expectations seem to be getting higher all the time.

BACCHUS: WE HOPE YOU LIKE OUR NEW DIRECTION

BACCHUS: WE HOPE YOU LIKE OUR NEW DIRECTION
I have a gripe. If your special opening offer of two courses for £10 has ended, don’t leave flyers on every table advertising it. At best, it is confusing, at worst well……….

I am getting ahead of myself.

I have a confession to make. This was my first visit to Bacchus. HP had been of course, many times. He was, I think one of the first through the door when they opened and one of the last before they began the refurbishment. But, I had never set foot in the place. In part because of my travel schedule but more that, quite frankly the thought of molecular gastronomy in Shoreditch scared the living bejesus out of me. When I heard they were giving up frippery and foams in favour of something more simple I thought it was the perfect time to pop my Bacchus cherry without fear of being suffocated by a waft of parmesan air.

I can’t tell you how much the room has changed from its previous incarnation, but can confirm that it now pushes all the necessary gastro pub buttons, with plump sofas, wooden floors and uncomfortable dining chairs. Unfortunately, it also has push button beer for those who are scared of taste and there is only one real ale pump, which the young German (?) server thought would have a barrel of Adnams attached to it one day. That day was not today.

The menu reads beautifully and is St John simple. That’s a double-edged sword because there is nowhere to hide as both ingredients and cooking have to be exemplary. Bacchus certainly has the first bit taped as, with the exception of some very ordinary bread, all the ingredients are obviously from the top drawer. It is a shame then that the cooking let it all down so badly.

A starter of duck livers on toast came not “seared” as advertised but cooked through until grey and, although the taste of the livers did its best to shine and worked well with excellent toast, it was swamped with too free a hand given to a vinegar dressing.
More liver for the main course and a simple sounding dish of “Calf’s Liver, bacon & onions” showed that while they know their grammar, they still need to do some homework in the kitchen. Again, the main ingredient was cooked through to school dinner toughness with none of the melting luxury of the best versions. The bacon was a large slab of excellent smoked pork, which would normally be a reason to do a little dance, but when it lacks any crunch, it is reduced to no more than a source of added fat.

If they were being unkind to their liver, I was being kind to mine and drank only mineral water and, skipping pudding, was presented with a bill of £22.75 + tip for service which was friendly and efficient if unhampered by other diners. It’s a fair price to pay, but as I read the flyer still trumpeting the special “two courses for £10” offer, I couldn’t help feeling that one of us had been had. I raised the question but was just told that the offer had finished. So there.

It’s a brave move to change a restaurant that amassed such affection for its food and its owners, particularly amongst the food blogging community. But, on this showing, I am afraid Bacchus has gone from being a quirky East London restaurant that people would cross the city to visit to being AN OTHER gastro pub that I would be hard pressed to find a reason to cross Hoxton Square for.

Ho Hum.