JAPAN: tsukiji fish market tuna auction - 10 FAQ's answered

The relationship the Japanese have with the sea is deep, intimate and expressed through their culture - The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai is a striking example. It is also a farm of the deep - as my Kyoto food-tour guide informed me whilst I tucked into a glossy pile of hijiki (a sea vegetable found on rocks), “the Japanese are very good at harvesting things from the ocean”.

Couple this with the main source of protein in Japanese cuisine being from fish, along with the far-reaching presence of water found in and around the country (it’s an archipalegio of 6852 islands), few would be surprised to find the world’s biggest fish and seafood market in Tokyo - Tsukiji Fish Market.

2000 tonnes of nature’s wriggling and iridescent bounty - hauled from all corners of the world’s vast waters - pass through the market's 80-year-old halls each day. Dark claw-bound lobsters, prickly sea urchins with silky innards, boxes of writhing eels, fish eggs and fish heads, hunks of pristine steaks, minute spring-time baby sardines, giant scallop shells prised open, tiny tight clams, king crabs the size of dogs, mountains of shimmering whitebait, livers of monkfish, rippling stingray, and every unidentifiable and alien species in between. All that, and not the slightest whiff of fish.

From the encyclopedia of sea-dwelling consumables sold in Tsukiji, the most prized catch is that of maguro (tuna). So valuable is this beast, trade of hauls take place through auctions held shortly after the market opens in the small hours of the morning.

This article aims to provide the insight and information you need to successfully witness this unique spectacle.

1) What’s all the fuss about?

Tunas are big and profitable. The meaty flesh is prized for use in sushi and as sashimi, and the most lucrative cut is from the fatty belly, otoro. These fish put on weight over winter to see them through the cold months, and the extra fat is what raises the stakes at the time of auction. 

Every year, on the first Saturday in January, Japan makes a grand statement to the global fishing community by putting an exorbitant price on the head of a single bluefin tuna. The first auction of 2013 saw a 489 pound bluefin caught off northeastern Japan sell for a record of £1.09m to the president of a restaurant chain.

Stocks of these majestic beauties are depleting worldwide amid the strong demand for sushi and sashimi. In addition, Tsukiji Market in its present form will soon be no more. The city has plans to spend $4.5 billion to relocate it to a modern, climate-controlled distribution center on a manufactured island by spring 2016 as part of a broader face-lift Tokyo is planning before the 2020 Olympics. This will bring not only the loss of an historic marketplace, but also another blow to a vanishing way of life. 

Combine these factors, and the chance to witness one of the great food shows on earth (and a glimpse into the old, quaint way of Japan) is dwindling.


2) I’m sold. What days can I go?

Tsukiji Fish Market is not open every day. I’ve heard tales of people walking for an hour from their hotel only to curse into the dark morning once they realised it was shut. As a general rule, it’s closed every Sunday, a lot of Wednesdays and Bank Holidays. But there are a few other closed days dotted about. 

Check the Tsukiji Fish Market 2014 Calendar before you set the alarm - you want a day that’s white. Note that the rows of days for each month go from Sun (left) - Sat (right). 


2) How do I get there?

The time of day at which you’ll be moving about town in order to get to the market early enough for a chance of seeing the auction, is a time no sane being would choose to be awake. This means public transport (buses and subway) will not be running. 

You will either need to walk or take a taxi. When staying in Tokyo, you may want to strategically select a hotel close by for this reason.


3) How much is it?

Entirely free. All credit to the market for keeping it this way - they could easily charge and people would still come.

4) Ok hit me - what time do I have to be there?

You’ve no doubt heard it’s an early start. But I’ll bet you it’s earlier than you think. 

On April 10th this year, my partner and I turned up at 4am. We had done much research beforehand, and the unanimous advice suggested 4am was a safe bet. 

That information is now out of date.

“No, it’s finished. Tuna auction finished. People here 3am!” was the response we got from the security guard, fervently tapping his watch. Bleary eyed and heavy-hearted, we realised he was trying to tell us the 120 people quota (more on that later) had already been met, and that people had started queuing from 3am. Even though the auction itself had yet to start, we were too late.

Undeterred, we returned the following morning and - just to be sure - arrived at 2.50am. There was a single soul before us. He had also met the same sorry fate we had the previous day and was back for a second attempt, but had arrived at 5am on his first go - practically closing time in tuna auction terms.

More people soon followed and by about 3.30 - 3.40 the full quota was met and we were hearded indoors.

I suspect that because the market is soon to leave this historic site, the number of people eager to witness the auction before it does is rising, resulting in a need to get in the queue earlier than resources report. It was also April - a popular month to visit Japan (because of the cherry blossom). My general thought is, if you’re going to get up at such an ungodly hour anyway, you may as well make sure it’s worthwhile. Aim to get there at 3am, 3.15am the latest.


5) The market is a big place - where do I need to go?

Don’t make the mistake we did on our first attempt and enter the Main Gate, walk through the entirety of the market (risking life and limb among the speeding electronic carts), whilst wailing ‘maguro auction??’ to any friendly face we came across.

You need to make your way to the registration desk - this is at the Fish Information Centre by the Kachidoki Gate entrance (by the Kachidoki bridge) and is the top left corner of the market map below, marked by ‘You are here’. This is actually the east corner of the market (note the orientation of the map indicated by the compass at the top right). Walk around the outside of the market to get to it, not through it - it will be quicker and easier.

Here is another map of Tsukiji Market which includes some of the surrounding roads.

6
6) What are the waiting times like?

In a word - long. 

First, there’s waiting in the queue. This is outside with no cover - bring an umbrella if it’s raining and warm clothing if it’s cold. You’re waiting for the number of people to reach 120 - that’s when they’ll allow you inside. As I mentioned earlier, this happened at around 3.30 - 3.40am for our visit. Anyone that arrives after 120 people have been counted will be turned away, whatever time that may be.  

The 120 people are split into two groups - each handed a different colour vest that must be kept on at all times. This makes a lot of sense - you’re ushered by the guards to the auction area (which is a little walk away from the waiting room), through market traders and tourists alike, the latter of which could easily merge into the group (having skipped the waiting slog everyone else endured) if it weren’t for the vests.

The vests also determine the two different auction viewing times - the first 60 people are let in at 5.25am. The second 60 at 5.50am. Both viewing periods are for 25 minutes.

So, unfortunately, that works out as a further two hour or so wait (or longer if you’re in the second group), before you get to see any maguro. I brought a tablet and got through a lot of photo editing in that time, so managed to put it to good use. I’d advise doing something similar, or aim for a kip.

7) That’s a long time - any insight on the waiting room?

Head straight for a wall. There are no chairs, everyone ends up sitting on the floor as soon as their legs give in, and it really helps if you have something to lean back on. You’ll be packed in quite tightly too - the guards will encourage you to shuffle up. It’s bright in there, so bring sunglasses or a hat if you want to catch a bit of shut-eye.

As for food, no one was searched on entry so do bring snacks to keep you going if you need it, even though the signs say no food or drink. I think there were some vending machines in there. Several cans of iced coffee seemed to be the fuel of choice.

Music and headphones are a good shout - there is a George Orwell ‘1984’ style video playing on loop for the whole duration droning on about how you can’t make any noise in the auction area, wave your hands, take flash photography, be drunk etc. Try not to punch the TV.

8) What happens during the tuna auction?

When 5.25am and 5.50am eventually come around, the group of sixty are lead by a guard through weaving electronic carts and traders, to the tuna auction area. 

The room is lined with rows of magnificent tuna torsos of varying sizes, but all large, and the group stand in a cordoned off area. Interestingly, this is when I learnt these fish are often frozen - necessary for them to keep if hauled and shipped from the other side of the globe. Tail-ends are half severed to expose flesh for scrutiny by the potential bidders; torches are shined, shreds torn off and rubbed between fingertips, and pick axes taken to the carcasses in order to gauge the level of fat and quality of meat.

Once inspections have been made, the auctions begin, several running simultaneously. The auctioneer raises his hands as though preaching, with a chant-like cacophony of noise and bells. Buyers discreetly close fingers across their palms to communicate a bid. When sold, information is painted in red onto the frozen fish, the torso then dragged out of the scene by a man with a hook.

Traders go about this commerce entirely oblivious to the tourist group (they must be so used to them being there), so it’s an authentic glimpse into the unique nature of this business.

Here's a short video I took of the scene:

9) What can I do after?

Guide books and internet sites will suggest having breakfast at one of the sushi restaurants within the market “for the freshest sushi in the world”.

We forwent this recommendation in favour of getting back to the hotel for a couple of hours sleep so as not to ruin the carefully adjusted hours of wakefullness post jetlag. There is no way I can last a full day after a 2am wake-up call.

Instead, we had our first meal of the day at around 11am down the road at the excellent Kyubey (more information on that in my 10 Things to Eat in Tokyo post) with equally fresh produce but without the hoardes of tourists.

To prevent accidents and tourists from interfering with the fluid trade within the market, the wholesale area (with all the stalls of fish on display) is only open from 9am, after the peak hours of business have passed. If you finish the auction at 6 - 6.30, follow it with breakfast somewhere close-by (further afield will not be open at this time), you may just finish in time for a 9am market stroll.

There is also the outer market located adjacent to the inner market, which caters to the public rather than wholesale commerce. Here you’ll find a few blocks of small retail shops and the sushi restaurants crowded along the narrow lines. This is accessible any time the market as a whole is open.

10) Is it worth it?

Whilst queuing for tourist-targeted activities usually goes against what I’m happy to endure (especially so early in the morning), this spectacle is quite different from others, and won’t be around in this form forever.

The 120 people quota per day - whilst scuppering the plans of those who arrive late - is in fact a welcome restriction once you’ve made it into a vest. It means you get a clear view of the auctions (taking place either side of the cordoned off area) and can experience it in comfort. There won’t be any craning of necks or a need to elbow people out of the way and as mentioned before, it's completely free.

Sacrificing a few hours sleep to witness something so central to Japanese culture is worth it in my book. 

Go forth and seek the majestic mugaro.

Related articles:
JAPAN: onsen etiquette - a guide to taking a traditional public (and naked) bath
JAPAN: 10 things to eat in Tokyo
JAPAN: tea ceremony in Kyoto

Afiyet olsun.

chakra, notting hill - review

Many a cow sacrificed itself to kit out Chakra in Notting Hill. Whilst there is an expected absence of beef on the menu, there is a strong bovine presence; leather covered tables, sunken cream leather chairs and dimpled leather banquets, padded leather walls - there’s potential to moonlight as a sectioning ward. 

The space does initially feel like someone went wild at the everlasting DFS sales. The off-white colour scheme is one most restaurateurs would run a mile from, particularly for a cuisine with staining powers that would render even the most concentrated dose of Vanish as redundant. 

But along with the shimmering chandeliers, classy cocktails, well-drilled waiting staff, and clientele that boasts a few celebrities, it packages very nicely as an up-market and lavish dining destination set in an affluent part of town.

Owned by Andy Varma also acting as executive chef (having previously launched the now closed Varma in Chelsea), the menu aims to bring the traditions of the Maharajah kitchen to diners. The atmosphere encourages customers to come in, sit a while, and take their time; seating is just about the most comfortable I’ve come across in a restaurant, if you’re partial to feeling like you’re in a living room whilst eating.

All tables were presented with small bites of delicately spiced red kidney bean kebab with good texture, and a complimentary three-tiered assembly of vessels housing chutney and fresh, crisp poppadoms scattered with cumin seeds.

Khumb bharwa received immediate approval from our waitress, “They’re one of my favourite things on the menu” - buttons stuffed with cool paneer and potato, spiked with sweet pomegranate and coated in a vibrant yoghurt marinade (£9.95).

Smoked Gressingham duck breast rolled in spices - the meat relaxed by the tenderising qualities found in papaya - was quite spectacular. A texture and richness in iron similar to chicken liver (which I adore) - smooth and gamey and with little bits of char that caught the heat. The accompanying salad was entirely superfluous, but they’re difficult to get away from in Indian restaurants. But that duck was great (£13.95).

In the same breath, patiala chaap lamb chops that had spent valuable time wallowing in a lemon, yoghurt and garam masala marinade with presence of cardamom, were, simply put, the best texture of this cut I have encountered. It’s they’re signature dish and they’re proud of it:

“We call them the second best lamb chops in London.”

“Who is the first?”

“Well we think it’s us, but we can’t say we’re the first.”

The modesty. Meat soft enough to make molars an entirely unnecessary accessory in the endeavour of eating them (£14.50).

When you’re on such a good red meat roll, it’s difficult to stop. Using a recipe from Aminabad in Lucknow, flattened patties of venison galouti kebabs with chilli, garlic and ginger were as pleasing between the teeth as they were on the taste buds (£11.50). Parcels packed with flavour, more softness.

Filaments of Rajastan-inspired lightly battered and fried okra were salty, well spiced and supremely crisp, exposed seeds a little puffed up from the heat. Sporting a flourish of mango powder and roasted aromatic carom seeds, they were impossible to leave alone. Someone needs to package these and sell them with cold beer - I can think of few better things to snack on (£4.75 / £9.95).

A luxurious black daal cooked long and low, finished with cream and fenugreek (£4.75 / £8.50) was a delight with butter paratha (£3.50). A bowl of tandoori roasted and pureed aubergine cooked down with ginger and onions (£4.95 / £9.50) had us dragging the mush up the sides, scooped up in torn bits of peshwari naan (£3) and popped into mouths.

The food here was more than pleasing, with a particularly favourable nod towards the meat dishes. My one gripe is the price point. Some things feel expensive for the volume you receive. The chops were indeed magnificent, but £14.50 for two small ones is a lot. A tenner for five little stuffed mushrooms is a lot. As is three quarter slices of paratha for £3.50 and a bowl of raita for £5.50.

Notting Hill isn’t my local neighbourhood. If it was, it would probably mean my financial circumstances would be such that I’d barely notice the optimistic prices. And it seems this is the case for those who are locals.

On arrival at 1pm on Sunday there was one couple seated, soon followed by the well-to-do - more couples, groups of friends, Indian families. I suspect they’ve been before, and none seemed deterred by the prices. I suppose business is all about knowing your market and something is only worth what others are willing to pay for it. Whilst an outsider of the well-heeled Notting Hill elite may feel it's expensive here, it seems to be appropriate for its location.

There is undoubtebly good cooking taking place in Chakra’s kitchens. If you’ve got the pockets for it, it’s certainly a worthy visit as part of London’s Indian dining scene.

Liked lots: the way the kitchen has with red meat, Rajastani okra fries, very good service, they do a very pleasant lychee and mint mojito that isn’t too sweet
Likes less: it feels expensive compared to other Indian restaurants of a similar caliber
Good for: having a splurge and enjoying a good meal whilst doing so

My rating: 3.5/5

Find the menu on Zomato.

Afiyet olsun.

Note: I was invited as a guest to review this restaurant.

chiltern firehouse, marylebone - review

I babysat my six-year-old cousin the other day and in doing so, treated myself - I mean her - to a rerun of the Disney modern-classic, Ratatouille. There’s a great scene where - after being asked if he knew what he’d like to eat that evening - the imperious and acerbic food critic, Anton Ego, hisses a response that leaves the waiter cowering behind his silver tray:

“Yes, I think I do. After reading a lot of overheated puffery about your new cook, you know what I'm craving? A little perspective. That's it. I'd like some fresh, clear, well seasoned perspective. Can you suggest a good wine to go with that?”

(You haven’t watched Ratatouille? Oh, you must.)

A cynical response, but one I couldn't shift from my mind throughout the meal at Chiltern Firehouse.

Anyone who is anyone (and a lot of people who are no one) have been paraded and snapped at Chiltern since its opening in the new André Balazs hotel in February. It’s won Tatler’s Restaurant of the Year (after being open for just three months; how that even makes sense I'm yet to figure out), has been fawned over by almost everyone who has visited (national critics included), and is so hot on the celebrity front that the Daily Mail Online Showbiz column could dedicate a whole section to it.

I - as well as everyone else, I’m sure - went in with high expectations. Some were met, others were very far off.

One thing that is indisputable is the splendour of the place - it is achingly beautiful. “Industrial Parisian chic, I’d call this”, my interior designer companion cooed. “Who did this, it’s excellent - I want to work with them”. Studio KO did, and a full-hearted bravo to them - it’s exquisite.

Also indisputable, is the calibre of clientèle. “There are a lot of hot guys in here - he’s been sitting on his own for ages, I wonder if he’s single”. A couple of tango-tastic Made in Chelsea stars aside, the crowd was cool and trendy and more than easy on the eye.

The other favourable point of note are the staff. They offered to take snaps of us hanging off the wine corridor ladders so we could post them on social media and gloat about being at the hottest place in town. “I won’t take one, I’ll take ten!” enthused the Maitr’d, in her baby pink jump suit.

The cute waiters kept giving us twinkling winks as we scuttled through round the back and descended (and descended) to the toilets (close to the centre of the earth, I think), which had a secret door past the cubicles that lead out through a slick basement / outdoor area where people were flirting, smoking and enjoying negronis in the heat of the evening.

Let there be no mistaking, we enjoyed the physicality of the place immensely - the aesthetics (of everything and everyone), the feel, the background jazz playing, the atmosphere. We stayed until late, well after our meal. It’s an outstanding spot for classy and on-trend socialising - the vibe is spot on. 

But the overriding feel is that people are going for the association, not for the food. Most of the girls don’t look like they’ve had more than half a ham sandwich since puberty, and I saw couples where only the man was eating - one of those places. Many came in just to have a drink - with no intention to eat - to say they've at least been, I suspect.

I could say the food was wasted on this crowd, but I wouldn't mean it.

And so, to the food. It started off on a solid foot, from the page of while-you-wait type bites. Cool and crunchy inverted florets of cauliflower sitting in a spiced truffle paste were good (£5). Crab-stuffed donuts with a dusting of crab coral were soft and, you know - also good (£6).

Then to the saving-grace of the night, the starters, which were actually very good. My partner’s steak tartare induced a bout of food envy. The chopped beef moulded into a neat mound, all glistening and glorious once mixed with egg yolk (patiently sitting atop, waiting to breach), diced pickles, shallots, radishes, and a chipotle ‘Firehouse’ sauce (£12).

But then we glanced over at my barley and oat risotto with nettles and crisped slithers of artichoke that looked like someone had scooped up the essence of spring from a meadow with a butterfly net and arranged it on my plate. Incredibly intense green liquid pooling in the gaps my fork left, dark lilac borage flowers, and a splendid consistency (£11).

Chargrilled Iberico pork with roasted garlic and collard greens had become that fateful state of requiring too much effort to chew. It needed more char, perhaps a crust - something to help the molars do their job. The other bits on the plate were alright (£29). My companion quite enjoyed it, but wasn't floored, expecting more what with Mendes in the kitchen.

She really didn't care for the spring lamb with minted broad beans, radishes and goat’s curd (gave it 4/10 - harsh). The texture of it was more appealing to me compared to the pork, but the thick layer of fat was neither crispy nor engaging on the tongue, so it was left. The thin sauce slopped about, making the dish look untidy on delivery. The best thing on that plate was the rest of it (£30).

The maple-bourbon sweet potato mash was a divisive presence. I found it tooth-aching and akin to puréed carrot baby food. She - who does not normally have a sweet tooth - loved it, spooning up the whole lot. I left her to it after a couple of goes (£5). Purple sprouting broccoli was fine (£5).

I longed for fireworks at dessert. We got sparklers, and mine was damp. 

Frozen apple panna cotta with shiso leaf granité and diced meringue looked fun, like the hump of a snail poking out of moss. Flavour combinations were interesting, with little limpid cubes of intense apple flavour adding some tang (£9).

The clementine custard inside my citrus tarte with sesame sponge was the best thing on the plate, both sweet and tart. But there was the same torched meringe as on the other dessert, making them look similar. And the piped peaks had no form - they were too soft. There was also something else white and wobbly with the texture of tofu (and about the same amount of flavour), which is divisive in itself. I didn’t clear it (£9).

A combination of no bread and not finishing everything I ordered meant that after another couple of (might I say, excellent) cocktails, I had little choice but to slip through the golden arches for some nuggets on the way to the tube, despite (recoiling from) the £85 bill; it was the above, plus an aperitivo and glass of wine each. 

On the note of cost, it’s a lot. My middle-range meals in London, with wine, usually come in at around £60 (many of those Michelin) - this bill made me flinch. It feels overpriced. What is it that I’m paying for exactly? Oh yes, the crowd.

Nuno was there, he came over and asked how it was - our responses noticeably gushed about the gorgeousness of the room and how busy it was, rather than the food. He's very sweet, with his floppy side-fringe. He was swamped by guests as he moved through the room, shaking his hand and congratulating him on the place. The waiter got some menus signed by him for me - I forgot to take them.

A gorgeous hang-out with gorgeous people and a stirling bar that just happens to do good food, Chiltern is. A very good restaurant in its own right, it is not; it's fallen victim to its own "puffery". There are just too many other places that consistently serve great food in wonderful environments at more accessible price points, for me to eat here again.

But I will definitely return for a drink, to bask in the splendour of the place and enjoy another Bella Sophia aperitivo, if nothing else.

Liked lots: the building and its interiors, the starters, staff, great aperitivos at reasonable prices, cracking cocktails
Liked less: fanfare, press, permanent paparazzi based at the entrance with the flash of their lights visible from inside, price point
Good for: sheep following, leaving peckish and a bit disappointed

My rating: 3/5

Afiyet olsun.

 

meat and shake, tooting bec - review

“The burger is omnipotent and irresistible, it can never be weakened.”

A bit god-like, is that. But the rousing burger-inspired quotes on the Meat & Shake website aren’t far wrong. Burgers are still here. This meaty tide has yet to subside. Perhaps - along with cockroaches - they would be the only things left after a nuclear war; the bloody things just won’t die.

“If everything else fails, the burger will still stand”. 

I don’t doubt it.

It’s just as well I quite like them, then. Meat & Shake is the relatively new kid on Tooting’s block (opened August 2013), taking over the site where an Indian restaurant stood before, and another before that.

It’s a clever location - I believe the next closest burger joint might be in Clapham (Byron - “opening soon” said the board last time I was there, and Haché). More importantly, they know their market - the menu is fully halal. I suspect the local Muslim community welcomed with open arms a new place to eat that wasn’t Nando’s or food from the Indian sub-continent.

It’s not a huge place, and I know how busy Tooting (Bec) can get. They also don’t take reservations, so I suspect any qualms will be around waiting for a table. Go a little either side of the usual eating times - 2pm on a Saturday and there were two tables free on arrival, it quietened down soon after.

They’ve gone for a casual American diner feel with leather booths and a sign illuminated with bare light bulbs. But there’s also a little refinement found in the large and heavy menus (for a burger place), and the addition of edible flowers and chefy slashes of sauce with your meal. The latter is entirely superfluous, but I appreciate the effort to be a little different.

The sourcing is solid. All the meat is free range and from Macken Brothers. Beef is dry-aged for a minimum of 35 days, ground daily and made into patties to order. And the meat offerings stretch far beyond what you can find between a bun - think lafayette wings, steak, slow-cooked sticky ribs and dogs.

Wave the hint of truffle under my nose and I will order it, even if it comes on a Spontex J-cloth. There is always the risk though, that ordering something with white truffle mayo and a honey and truffle glaze can be too potent. 

But the Truffle Shuffle (“hey you guys!”) was spot on, with melted Gruyère to boot. Patty pink in the middle with juices escaping as I cut, the whole assembly as sloppy as you like - my burger preference. The brioche bun - shiny, plump and fluffy - provided a perfect medium to mop up the mayo and dark sticky glaze; there are few things worse than bun left over with nothing for it to do (£7.90).

How I am with truffle, the other half is with blue cheese; “There’s proper blue cheese in this - I just got a bit of wheel rind” - a good sign. The Pepé Le Pew, also with aioli, red onions, walnuts and soft caramelised pear, was better than a similar offering he’d had at a much more well-known burger joint in town, he said (£8.50).

Dirty Fries (enough for two) looked like a toddler had gone mental in a Little Chef, but they were good. Chips topped with chilli con carne with nice fat kidney beans, sour cream, a stringy mess of melted cheese, slashes of mustard and generous helpings of jalapenos, which is always nice to see. I’d put them on a different plate though - it looks too busy (£5.50). 

The coleslaw was a little disappointing and mostly left - too watery. Thicken up the mayo dressing and add a bit of Dijon would be my advice (£2.50). The side of gherkins were three fat piquant whoppers, so that was good (£1.90).

Shakes take up a whole page, with flavour combinations enticing enough to draw me back alone - fig and cinnamon, coconut and mango, stem ginger with lemon and honey, peanut butter with banana and brownies. But salted caramel was there and we all know how impossible that is to ignore. So it was ordered, delivered in a frozen metal vessel, and very much enjoyed (£5).

In an effort to boost my calorie credit before gorging, I walked over 2 miles to get to Meat & Shake from my house; I likely would again. A solid Tooting eatery and great to see on my local dining scene. I hear they have plans to expand - if I were them, I’d stick to neighbourhoods crying out for good burgers, rather than trying to compete with the well-established heavyweights up town.

Keep a hungry eye on these guys.

Liked lots: burger sloppy-ness, shakes, it's local to me
Likes less: coleslaw
Good for: good burgers that you don't have to go in town for, getting adventurous with the shakes, halal-seekers 

My rating: 3.5/5

Find the menu on Zomato.

Afiyet olsun.

Note: I was invited as a guest to review this restaurant.

halloumi pasta with lemon and mint

There are few things more pleasurable than biting into the yielding flesh of a thick slab of smoky halloumi taken straight off the barbeque, blistered brown by the heat and relinquishing all its salty wonder with every bite. 

Society is now relatively accustomed to this firm and squeaky cheese traditionally made with the milk from goats and sheep and originating from Cyprus; it’s frequently used as a meat substitute in burgers and on kebab skewers, added to salads or served with vegetables. It can be eaten straight off the knife but is also often found grilled, fried or barbequed due to its unique quality of form that lends itself so well to the cooking process – it’s a cheese that doesn’t melt, it just gets a bit softer.

My father is from North Cyprus, so growing up surrounded by the fabulous Cypriot and Turkish cuisine (as well as excellent Mauritian cuisine from my mother’s side), I’m probably more accustomed to this cheese than most. And I therefore know just how versatile it can be. 

As well as the above, it is also traditionally found incorporated into bread dough and one of my favourite ways of devouring it, with pasta. This dish is one from my childhood - one of those where I’d get overly animated when I knew it was on the menu for dinner. I’ve carried it through to adulthood, frequently returning to it and sharing it with friends who have almost unanimously fallen for it at first taste. It’s one of the simplest meals in my repertoire consisting of a mere six ingredients, yet yields one of the biggest pleasure bounties.

Combining flavours of both fresh and dried mint, chicken stock and lemon juice with the saltiness of the cheese, the result is a plate of pure satiety. Serving the cheese in its grated form allows each mint laden particle to mingle with the lemony chicken juices and coat every bit of pasta. 

To make this dish vegetarian, simply replace the chicken stock with vegetable stock. Excellent eaten either hot or cold the next day, it makes the perfect accompaniment to some left over roast chicken taken on a picnic. We now just need to wait for the weather to humour us.

Halloumi Pasta with Lemon and Mint

Serves 4

200g halloumi

400g whole wheat pasta

2 litres of ready made chicken stock (or three chicken stock cubes)

2 lemons

2 tbsp dried mint

A few sprigs of fresh mint

Finely grate the cheese and mix with the dried mint. Chop a handful of the mint leaves and set aside. In the meantime, cook the pasta in the chicken stock. If you don’t have ready made stock, use three chicken stock cubes in around two litres of water. The liquid should cover the pasta by an inch or so. 

If the liquid gets too low before the pasta is cooked, add a splash more. You want most of the liquid to have been absorbed by the end, but with some still remaining.

Layer some of the grated cheese and mint in an empty shallow bowl per person. 

When the pasta is al dente, ladle half a portion into the bowl along with a little of the stock. Sprinkle another layer of the grated cheese, top with some more pasta, and finish with the final layer of cheese. Sprinkle with a generous amount of the fresh mint.

Squeeze the juice from ¼ to ½ a lemon over each bowl (depending on how much your guests like lemon – I like it a lot), and serve with a few more wedges should they wish for more.

Alfiyet olsun.

café murano, mayfair - review

It’s been a while since the efforts of a restaurant kitchen have greeted me - and subsequently shaken me by the shoulders - at the door. The babble of full-flowing conversation from every table, alongside the enticing aroma of seafood stock were the first things to strike the senses once over the threshold of Café Murano.

I don’t think it’s that common to smell the food a restaurant is cooking as soon as you walk in; perhaps ventilation systems are so good these days, and restaurants can be rather large. But it was a welcome I’d like to experience more often, like when entering a friend’s home with a hello of “something smells good”. It felt right and was indicative of the meal to come - unafraid to make itself known and for good reason.

Lunch-o-clock on a Tuesday and I couldn't spot a free table, despite sopping conditions from the mini-monsoon haemorrhaging over the city. People had reservations and they were keeping them; those without them (I assume) were free-wheeling it at the bar. I can think of few better places I’d want to be if it was wet out, or dry. Or snowing, or Med hot (I really like this place).

The design is both classy and chic, whilst achieving a completely at-ease environment. The crowd is sophisticated, often be-suited, but one I suspect find few things more enjoyable than good food with good wine and good company; it was breezy and buoyant and everyone seemed to be having a bloody great “lunch meeting”. 

It’s fronted by Angela Hartnett, as is the refined big-sister Michelin-starred Murano down the road. The term café is what differentiates the two, hinting towards a far more relaxed atmosphere, very accessible price points and a great option for a not-too-showy but suitably impressive second date (so my single companion reliably informed me).



The aperitivo of the day was something said with the sort of wonderfully thick and indecipherable Italian accent of a waiter you immediately put all your culinary faith in, the natural response being, “lovely - we'll take two please”. I later discovered it was called an Olandese Volante - kümmel, gin, plum and an Italian vermouth; it was burnished amber and very clever.

A trio of toy-sized truffle arancini were piping-hot and - what I initially thought - a touch underseasoned. Turns out my first bite was wrong (I can only put it down to the palate finishing its occupation with such a great cocktail); all subsequent mouthfuls were so spot on, we ordered another round (£3). Chunks of warm octopus with firm chickpeas, the soft crunch of pine nuts and baby gem were yielding and tasty, but could have benefited from a touch more depth in the sauce. Yet weirdly, again, it seemed to improve as I continued to eat it (£9.50). 

The cacciuccio (I’m so glad my dining partner ordered the thing we were neither able to translate nor pronounce) was a fish stew triumph; had the fish in it had a chest, I would have pinned a medal to it. A rich and deep broth with a touch of chilli, saffron and fennel, we spooned the sauce straight to our lips with great zeal whilst simultaneously lamenting over the diminishing volume. The white fish in it was just gorgeous, and the prawns were soft - really soft (I’m not sure I’ve had such soft prawns before). Served in an oven dish with a hardened and gloriously chewy thin bit of bruschetta slathered in a pesto so vibrant I’m sure it was blitzed moments before, I was still cooing over it once I got home (£8.50).

And then there was the primi - the pastas. The surface area of the linguine with lobster, garlic and chilli had a roughness substantial enough to detect on the lips; the sharp and sweet tomato sauce clinging to every microscopic crevice as though an amorous embrace (£18/£26).

The gnocchi - good grief, the gnocchi. Simply the finest texture of its form I’ve encountered - fluffy and sticky and disintegrating into a silken substance from the pressure of the tongue against the roof of the mouth. Each one browned a little on one side, lacquered with a sauce and joined by such spring time seasonal delights as morels, asparagus and wild garlic (£11/£16.50). It was still great even after an engaging catch-up left a little of it to go cold.

Only a madman would fall for the ill-fated lethargy a carb-on-carb attack almost always induces - who orders polenta as a side to pasta (apart from Italians)? I do (it was raining, remember) and thank goodness for that. How ground corn and Parmesan can be whipped up into something so light and so delicate is a little beyond me, but well done to the kitchen for that mini-triumph. Some of the best I’ve had (£3.50).

When will this gushing end? Soon - bear with me. The tiramisu was without fault (it’s such a good gauge of an Italian restaurant - £6), the scoop of salted caramel ice cream and another of cinnamon had ethereal textures (and the flavour balance of the former was so completely right), and the pink grapefruit and melon sorbets finished the whole exquisite encounter superbly (£1.75 per scoop).

Quite simply, this is my new favourite Italian in town. Granted, I have a few of note I’m yet to try but regardless, Café Murano will be difficult to top. I have little choice but to visit Murano now - oh well..

Liked lots: all of the food, great atmosphere, spot-on warm service, feels special whilst having accessible pricing, that fish stew; there is a set lunch menu of three courses for £35
Liked less: let me get back to you
Good for: a second date (so I'm told), a first date, a 23rd date, all of your dates

My rating: 4.5/5

Find the menu on Zomato.

Afiyet olsun.

hedone, chiswick - review

The story behind Hedone is a rare one, if not completely unique. Swedish-born Mikael Jonsson pursued his “borderline obsession” for ingredients of the highest quality by training as a chef in his early years. But his severe allergies to a variety of food put on hold any dreams of opening his own restaurant and instead, he forged a career as a lawyer. 

During this time, Jonsson authored a food blog, Gastroville.com (now closed), demonstrating great understanding and in-depth analysis of food, whilst also advising chefs and restaurateurs where to find the best ingredients. At the age of 44, he discovered a Paleolithic diet which did not aggravate his allergies, and was finally able to make the transition from food critic and blogger to restaurateur. It was the first time the self-taught chef had worked in a commercial kitchen and after just one year, it received a coveted Michelin star.

Jonsson’s brazen confidence to dare even hope for success as an amateur chef in a city that was just starting to then (Hedone opened in 2011) - and is, still now - reeling from a culinary Big Bang, is enough to draw the curious alone. Add to this almost instant recognition and his unfiltered passion for ingredients (but minus the somewhat awkward Chiswick location), and you’re left with an offering that is difficult to ignore.

The menus at Hedone are as fluid as the red the young sommelier poured into our glasses; based on the finest ingredients the kitchen is able to land, they can change from lunch to dinner, and even during service. Because of this, there is no insight into what you might eat there on the website. The intention is to waste little and serve the very best - you see the menu for that service once you’re seated. I’ve always been drawn to a restaurant with the confidence to say ‘get settled, let us pour you some wine, and trust us to feed you well’.

Presentation was sophisticated yet playful with contrasts of colour that hinted towards a fun kitchen; the baby-pink of the beetroot and rhubarb against a wide matt-black bowl rim, the azure background to the limpid green apple sauce on a parfait, the grey-blue macaron with vibrant green filling. 

A delicate (in both form and flavour) crimson beetroot cornetto with foam-of-root piped on top of a little smoked eel was a down-in-one affair. Delivered in a wooden box and supported by wild rice which filled it, we were tersely advised by the Maitre’d - as I was taking a photo - that it needed to be eaten quickly. I understand the irritance of us bloody bloggers taking pictures of everything at the detriment of a dish that is going cold / melting / coagulating in the meantime, but please don’t dictate to me when to eat. I’m paying for this meal and I’ll enjoy it how I want (as long as it’s not hanging from a chandelier). 

That small niggle aside, the rest of the dining experience was a series of small thrills. Special mention to the gentleman with the glasses and silvering hair who I think was Head Waiter - he had a twinkle in his eye and a wonderful grin and made us laugh a good few times.

A savoury custard umami flan certainly had hints of Japan about it, with a clear bread consommé and crunchy nuggets of bread crumb, the pairing of smooth and savoury on the tongue was very complimentary.

The yolk of a duck egg, slow-poached in a sous vide, was served at the precise moment before setting takes place; a sublime physical state of buttery viscosity. The whites whipped up into a ‘cream of’, firm almost crunchy peas, and a flourish of red pepper reduction. Two cuts from a roasted guinea-fowl had tough exteriors, but pleasantly so, lubricated by a thick sauce (not a jus), with chard leaf separate from stem, and the newest of Jersey royals - an entirely unfussed but well-executed plate. And there was the bread, of which I’ve heard much about. Mikael honed his bread-making skills whilst training at Alex Croquet boulangerie in Wattignies, France - a school whose teacher is described as a ‘genius’ by Michelin. Mikael makes the batches each morning, some of which make their way to Antidote. Using the almost scientific techniques learnt from Croquet, the result is a glorious chewy and full-flavoured crust to work the jaw, an open crumb, with smooth reflective qualities around the curves of the air gaps. It’s really very good, and served with unpasteurised butter and a little salt, is a dictionary definition of what simple pleasures should be.

Both desserts were our favourite courses. The hazelnut and caramel parfait with kimono silk-thin wafers, tiny cubes of sharp apple with globules of its sauce was as well put together in its presentation as in its flavour combination. All things pink made up the second offering - rose, beetroot and rhubarb to form a floating island of sorbet atop a pearly and soft meringue base. Really well balanced, although the rose was undetectable. Probably a good thing as I’m not a great fan of floral smelling food. 

A single additional cheese course we wished to share between two (£14.50) was helpfully split across plates - five unpasteurised, gloriously funky and generous offerings of wonderful Claquebitou, Tomme Brulée, Chablis, farmhouse Camembert, and Fourme d'Ambert with extra slices of raisin bread at our request. A bonbon mound filled with liquid mango and a sesame macaron with a tangy lime and green tea filling rounded the meal off.

The double-fronted interiors give the impression of entering somewhere quite special, exclusive even. The threshold is marked by a heavy curtain once through the door, and windows are frosted to obscure the view out or in. If the intention is for clientèle to forget they’re on Chiswick High Street, it’s quite effective. Once you’ve left, you’re on your own - back through that heavy material and onto an overwhelmingly ordinary high-street, a contrast from what was just experienced.

I do feel we missed out not sitting at the bar of the open kitchen. If it wasn’t for the impish Head Waiter, the place could have felt a little cold compared to other Michelin restaurants. Had I been able to converse with Mikael himself, I expect I would have been directly privy to his - what is on paper - unquestionable passion. It also feels like the sort of place that needs more than one visit to draw an informed conclusion, with the expectation that each meal will be so different to the one before. The three-course lunch deal is a steal at £35 - I plan to return for it and do just that.

Liked lots: bread, umami flan, interiors, Head Waiter, lunch-menu value, desserts
Liked less: out-of-the-way location; being told what to do when I'm eating
Good for: seasonal eating of the very best produce; surprise menus; counter-seating to observe the kitchen

My rating: 4/5

Afiyet olsun.