THE ALBION: A SLIGHT RETURN

I had originally planned to visit The Sands End, a gastropub not far from the rather wonderful Harwood Arms but my foodie friend Scott pooh-poohed my idea. “It’s where Wills and Harry go” he said. He really didn’t need to say anything else. What’s the point of sitting down to eat the porky treats promised by the menu when you’re surrounded by braying hoorays and inbred, racist, parasites ?

Then one day whilst idly browsing my favourite Selma Blair websites I happened upon a link to The Albion in Islington. I last visited this neighbourhood GP almost two years ago where I ate an unfeasibly large Rump of Beef in an empty dining room that made me feel I’d travelled back through time to the 18th Century. They now had a new chef, Liam Kirwan, who coincidentally used to work at The Sands End. So I could get to eat his food after all, except this time I would be surrounded by the civilised inhabitants of N1.

Pitching up one Saturday lunchtime I didn’t expect it to be so busy – nearly every table was reserved – but they squeezed me in near the bar (believe me, no easy task) and I supped a decently kept pint of Black Sheep while deciding on my plan of action.

First up: Pork Crackling. I’ve eaten quite a lot of this in various places, the most recent being a St John–style cheffy variation in Hix Oyster and Chop House. It was good but not a patch on the version here. Hot, thick strips of scratching induced a looping mantra in my brain (“crunchy, chewy, porky, salty” and repeat). The Bramley Apple sauce was pleasantly tart.

Even better were the Cruibini which were a more butch version of the Crubeens served at Corrigan’s. Trotter meat had been cooked and mixed with some mustard then breadcrumbed and deep-fried. They were a little oily but with a some tomato relish as an accompaniment they were the ne plus ultra of bar snacks.

I’m not saying the menu description for some Pork Belly Terrine was long but it had good characterisation, plot development and a surprise ending. It was also a lot more interesting to read about than to eat being a bit polite and lacking a good porcine kick. In truth, it may have suffered coming after the support act.

Arbroath Smokie Cakes were the weakest of the dishes. The idea was an interesting one but needed more skill and refinement to bring the dish together. The cakes themselves suffered from a surfeit of large lumps of potato and undercooked onion. The fish overpowered everything else in the dish and its smokiness left an odd aftertaste and a sensation at the top of the mouth akin to getting too close to a fire and inhaling. A shame especially as the Duck egg was perfectly cooked and what I could taste of the sauce was good. I suspect that I would have had more luck with the simpler main courses.

Chips were mis-advertised as triple cooked but were more of the fat variety. It’s so very telling that I didn’t finish them. In the greater scheme of things it’s a minor irritant but I just wish restaurants wouldn’t do it.

I would have liked to have tried a pudding but a sudden influx of football supporters made things difficult. If there’s one thing worse than a bunch of middle-class, thirty-something men, talking mockney and all bonding furiously over football it’s having to eat Cambridge Burnt Cream whilst hot air is blasted at you from the aforementioned’ backsides. Not nice.

Still, if you avoid Arsenal home games you could probably have a decent bite to eat at The Albion. If I visited again I’d choose from the Snacks/Starter section of the menu and stick to Beer as oppose to being upsold from the dull wine list. Oh and give the chips a miss.

The Albion

High in the Custerdome

It’s official - 2007 is the year of the Gastropub. A veritable slew of them have already opened or reopened we’re only in March. And there’s more to come.

These are different beasts now: the ante’s been upped. Instead of the sloppy cooking and presentation that characterised much of the first wave, the 21st century GP gives us impeccably sourced ingredients, better chefs and more refined cooking.

One of the latest is The Albion whose chef, so the blurb says, trained under a certain famous chef. Why they’d want to associate themselves with someone who hasn’t cooked for years, owns a string of crappy restaurants and is obviously barking escapes me but there you go. After my meal there the other night the jury’s still out on whether having trained under someone who thinks he’s the British version of Don Vito Corleone has done him any good.

The menu reads well, full of interesting stuff you’d want to eat but probably wouldn’t prepare at home especially after a hard days graft. Soon after being seated I was brought some toothsome St John Sourdough which was probably the best bread I’ve had in a restaurant in ages.

The food itself was a bit of a mixed bag but generally good. A starter of Fried Brawn was nice and meaty and came with a suitably piquant tartare sauce. The breadcrumbed coating was greaseless and provided a nice counterpoint but at the expense of detracting from the filling. A common fault with most breadcrumbed comestibles.

The Georgian style dining room and dim lighting had had its effect on me and inspired me to the Brobdingnagian option of the Roast Rump of Beef. Served whole, this was a good piece of meat: nicely browned on the outside, rare within. A suitably sharp carving knife and large fork were supplied, a la Anchor and Hope for portionage. This is really a dish for two or three, not because of the size of the joint but because as a lean cut it quickly becomes a bit samey and two-thirds of the way through my taste buds were craving fat. This was somewhat ameliorated by the anchovy butter.

The ubiquitous triple cooked chips were present and very correct. In fact, these were closer to mini-roasties but unlike the also-ubiquitous-and-not-very-good fat chips these were lovely and crunchy with a fluffy interior. Excellent. The advertised watercress would have been a better foil than the supplied leaves but from the one taste I had they had been properly dressed.

With Baby Porky and Larry on the menu and the promise of BBQ in the garden this might be a good place to come for your big meat fix. But don’t come for the puds which were the least interesting part of the menu. I was going to go for the Ice Cream until the waiter ‘fessed up that it was Häagen-Dazs. I mean, come on, how difficult would it be to get an ice cream maker and roll your own ? I got some HD action anyway with the Rhubarb Crumble which came with that odd Cap’n Crunch topping that had appeared a couple of hour before. Putting it in a ramekin wasn’t too clever either as the crumble scattered as I attempted to get to the rhubarb. Oh well.

With a few exceptions GPs tended to be non-destinational. The cooking and setting didn’t justify a long journey. But things have changed. A bit. If I lived in West London (and each night I pray to my own particular God that I never have to) I probably wouldn’t undertake the traipse to The Albion. But given the paucity of good places to eat on Upper Street (and now Angel Mangal has gone, probably no good places to eat) it provides a decent alternative for the area and serves as a good neighbourhood joint. Which is all one could really ask for. Roll on Summer.