1 week Ago By Evening Standard
★★★★ Lunch out during the week is a favourite hobby, though I never fully understand the room. Who are these people? What do they do, where do they come from? This isn’t France: no Brit took a guillotine to the aristos in the name of a state-mandated prix fixe. Don’t most people have a proper job? I’m told the bankers are too busy these days for the three-martini shebang, and surely not every restaurant can survive on flirt-fests between hacks and PRs.
Or perhaps they can. Whatever; lunch is back. Proof is found at the newly opened Yellow Bittern on Cally Road (poshos’ caff, not keen on customers), the still-endless queues at Sweetings (stick to the fish pie) and now Canteen, which until this week did not deign to do evenings, and still can’t be bothered to do so on the weekends.
Lunch is the thing here, and for walk-ins only. A room full of those who married well, of actors, and anyone who works at night but can afford to dine in the day, like public school drug dealers. A room of scarcely believable skin.
But then, Portobello Road has never drawn the uglies. Canteen? No plastic trays, no lingering whiff of farts. The name is a conceit.
This is a room of scullery yellow benches and marble table tops, of raw concrete and wood-panelling. There is an earnest amount of steel. It is the Pelican boys, Phil Winser and James Gummer, sailing off into the Mediterranean sunset.
Tough gig: Italian restaurants are hard to get right. Pizza is never just pizza; there is never a ragù as sweet as the one from a trip taken years ago. London has only one perfect Italian restaurant, Bocca di Lupo.
Well, had, not has: now there are two. It is wilfully nonchalant. Along with reservations (and, regrettably, cushions), it’s done away with the wine list — the choice is red or white.
The old pub play, albeit much pricier at £47. Unmarked bottles are poured straight from the keg: our white was garganega, the northern Italian favourite, and the kind of wine holiday daydreams so often seem to revolve around. Another nod to nonchalance is the “name of chef” line that tops the menus.
Exotically, the chefs here do, in fact, have names. One is Jessica Filbey and the other is Harry Hills, both ex-River Café. They have inherited the style but fortunately not the prices.
God, can they cook. It tells right from the off, first with salted focaccia so much less leaden than usual, and then with the olives that are stuffed with a gently herbed sausage, rolled in breadcrumbs, and fried. Those in less abstemious moods might wish to order a martini to match.
Italian restaurants are hard to get right. Pizza is never just pizza; there is never a ragù as sweet as the one from a trip taken years ago Pasta, all made daily in house, could make a claim as London’s best. Scarves of fettuccine lay in a floordrobe on the plate, thoroughly worked through with veal ragù and under scattershot Parmesan.
Faultless; the ragù neither too heavy nor a watery mess, seasoned with pep and offering comfort without the usual weight. Ravioli with their cushions plumped by mushroom and thyme arrived with girolles on the plate, a wash of olive oil and a crumble of peppercorn. Taken in the smaller of two portion sizes, to share, both of these became the source of the kind of rapturous joy that brings with it a whispering whine of resentment: do I really have to give any up, and what’s this loser doing here with me, anyway? You might eat these pastas or others similar, or perhaps gnocchi with sauce, or a risotto of some kind.
The menu changes often. There are usually two pizzas, one likely vegetarian and one likely not. Mains can be more substantial, and spatchcocked chicken doused in lemon and oregano is a staple.
Our three brawny scallops arrived still with their roe and fried to the colour of cognac. They sat smothering a tumble of borlotti beans. With these were winter tomatoes with oil and thyme and a question: why can’t every tomato taste like this? Later, a chocolate mousse wondered just how fat we’d like to get this winter.
Very, we replied, then wobbled away in a euphoric daze. “I’d cross town for lunch here,” I said, prodding my stomach. You should, too.
We’re a fun crowd, the lunchers. Some of us are even working..
