Koffman’s at The Berkeley

Koffman’s at The Berkeley

Dining at Koffman’s is a bit like eating in the ante-chamber of a giant billiards room in a London gent’s townhouse (because I’d know all about that, you see). The edgy feeling that behind one of the doors, is a bustling, incredibly fun dining establishment bursting with vim, vigour and gluttonous diners throwing claret down their gullets by the carafe-load.

Bocca di Lupo – Soho

Bocca di Lupo is a hard place to get a reservation in, even two years after opening. Saturday nights get booked a couple of months in advance, not helped by Antonio Carluccio declaring it his “favourite Italian in Soho” on the Good Food show a few weeks back.

Sunday Brunch at The London Mal – Malmaison, Clerkenwell

Sunday brain teasers

I do have a soft spot for this quirky hotel brand where I have also overnighted. No fear of being the sad sack brunching alone and needing to play mobile Angry Birds for company here on a Sunday, the Mal Brasserie menu provides a nifty word search and Sudoku on its back page to entertain those enjoying oeufs-for-one.

A spread and a half. And a bit more…

Sunday Brunch is a new initiative at the Mal Brasserie – an eye-poppingly good value spread, with piggy delights galore gracing the Chef’s serving table and mains filling enough to make my post-Crimbo spare tyre look more like the Jeep it was meant to support. 3 courses in total for just £19.95 – and don’t think they have scrimped on the quality either.

Bloody Good Blood Mary

I began with a glossy, rich, soothing and saltily delicious wild mushroom soup, glistening with tiny pools of coppery truffle oil. This was the ideal balm to coat my gut region for the onslaught of pork-derived whoreing that ensued, a triple visit to the buffet table – venison scotch eggs, silky pork rillettes, salumi, coppa, iberico ham carved to order, pickled mushrooms, pickled beetroot, homemade piccalilly, a tranche of wood-smoked salmon, mackerel, tete de porc terrine, waffles to order, pancakes to order, eggs any way you want, a pungeant and feety tome de savoie being shaved into unctuous curls… I could go on, but to do so would impede me with a verbal hernia and thus cause this post to come to an abrupt end, without space to contemplate the burger beyond…

A Bloody Big Burger!

The burger, in fact, whilst perfectly fine, was less of a bang and a pop whizz than the Chef’s buffet. A decent, well-cooked, adequatly sized patty in a golden brioche bun that would be gloriously sized were it not for that fact that I was on my knees screaming for a doggy bag long before this came to the table. I do regret not having opted for the Huevos Rancheros, a particular favourite of mine… Choices, choices? I did say this was value for money….

Megga Eggs!

Finally, post-burger (and post an unremarkable, but again, decent fillet steak and frites) we came to dessert. Crepes Suzettes appealed for its retro chic inclusion on the menu. I had hopes for a flamboyant display of flaming Grand Marnier and lots of fiddling with copper pans and spoons at the table, but they came ready-made and minus the AA-mass exit-inducing whiff of alcoholic fug that usually accompanies them. But damnit, they were good. Very good. Thick, soft, bouncy, cushiony pancakes of sweet love, bathed in an orangey jammy juice and slathered in icing sugar. Sticky and joyfully reminiscent of playschool.

Singularly cosy…

A creme brûlée was pleasant, but I secretly just wanted to wash my face with the Crepes Suzettes a second time rather than order a different desert for the sake of variety.

I can’t recommend the excellent value of this brunch highly enough. Central London location, plush and cosy interior, welcoming and professional staff and a menu to pay smackdown to the heartiest of appetites, all within minutes of trendy Barbican and Farringdon – wherein to whet the artistic appetites, or simply retire for a post-lunch sing song at Karaoke Box in Smithfield…

Malmaison Clerkenwell
18-21 Charterhouse Square, London EC1M 6AH

Brunch available Sundays until 3 p.m.

3 courses – £19.95

No Red Herrings at Baltic Restaurant

Baltic, Ploski sklep

The Latin Americans may be having their London heydey, with Ceviche blazing the Peruvian trail and La Bodega Negra wa-hacking its way through Soho’s tastebuds but I like to do things differently. Euro 2012 is upon us, hosted by Poland and the Ukraine and since I’m about as sporty as a whale in a coma, I choose to celebrate this quadrennial footie extravaganza by satisfying my relentless gut and nashers.

To Baltic restaurant, ho! Just the name makes my nostrils quiver with the thrill of herring and dill, the “prrring” of gherkins and the eye-watering punch of vodka, which I can’t stomach, but which I seem to love when accompanied by saunas or pickled cabbage.

Upstairs in Brixton. Hidden Gem of SW2.

It had been a generally crap day until I discovered what eventually turned out to be the most exciting dinner since, I think, Joel Robuchon, or the trio of Foie Gras I guzzled in Toulouse. The delightful JoJo dragged me down the still ever-so-slightly dodgy Acre Lane, past Tesco, past the seemingly ever-empty if intriguing Bamboula, past Lidl and in fact, we almost walked past Upstairs itself. Tucked down a sideroad, on the corner where Opus cafe stands, is a wee doorbell. Past that door, is the stairway to foodie heaven.

Owner Philippe Castaing is the brains behind Brixton Green – championing the SW2 neighbourhood as a “silicon valley” for green business in Britain. Oh, and he’s also catered for Elton and Gordon Ramsey. Needless to say, as a pet project, Upstairs comes with a pedigree. 

Displaced at The Fish Place, Battersea

Fish tank

Battersea by night is an odd little place. The dark, industrial riverside, winding silently through the backyards of garden centers; badly lit wastelands flanked by lego estates, then suddenly, at the end of a fuzzy golden-flickering road, a towering skyscraper and the low-drone of a heliport. Yes, a heliport. Apparently, this is where Al-Fayed and Abramovitch park their little zippers when in town. Perhaps they even stay at the ultra-random, sausage finger-shaped HeliHotel in front of it too, then zipline across the dank Thames, Bond-style, to Harrods for a spot of shopping. Either way, tonight I am in this bizarre back-of-beyond to sample the delights of The Fish Place, a relatively new joint specializing in super-fresh British fish, in season, and a break-the-rules wine policy.

Bistro du Vin – “Divin” – SOHO

Natty patty.

I was a Bistro du Vin/Hotel du Vin novice until a week ago, however I knew my Wednesday night could only be looking up if I was to be rolling into a temple devoted to wine, Anglo-Gallic grub and oodles of cheese. I am a simple girl, the words “bistro”, “vin” and a temperature-controlled larder humming with the faint feety odour of a smorgasbord of French fromages is enough to get my pulse racing and my tastebuds breakdancing.

Les Deux Salons. Bon mais “bof”.

Ma’s birthday came around, I thought I’d treat the spring chicken to a posh meal in t’town. Covent Garden is conveniently located for them and I’d yet to visit any of the Anthony Demètre trio of Wild Honey, Arbutus or Les Deux Salons, so here was my occasion.

I love French bistro food. I love it, there’s no getting round it. Fling me the deglazed foie gras and snails. Serve me up a steaming bouillabaisse or salade de gésiers! Mmmm for lemon tart…

The Riverfront at BFI Southbank – more Raspberry than Oscar.

Diner style...

It was perhaps not a great omen that I arrived at The Riverfront Bar and Kitchen with a giant grilled prawn perching perilously atop my head. Nor that I had previously eaten my weight in delicious grilled meats and fish balls at a Feng Sushi barbecue press event, but this – I am learning rapidly – is the permanently sated and stuffed-to-the-gills reality of life as  a “food journalist”". So to The Riverfront of the BFI

The Great Mi-Steak – Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecote

Saucy little number.

Industrialist Henry Ford must have felt pretty chuffed with himself knowing his Assembly Line production method would lead to the consumerist revolution and propel the States into the stratosphere. The concept of Fordist assembly line production is simple enough: The motion of workers is minimized to the greatest extent possible. Each worker typically performs one simple operation. In the case of Le Relais de Venise, that simple operation appears to consist of drowning a perfectly innocent steak in a tidal wave of pigeon poo-coloured “special sauce”.