Spuntino, Soho

It will probably come as no surprise - it's certainly never been any great secret - that I have something of a history of addiction. For most of my adolescent and adult life, until only a few years ago, I have at any given point been addicted to something; be it pills, powders, liquor, eating, not eating or sex, I have been there, done that and bought every t-shirt.

Over the last few years though, things have been under control; I won't bore you with the exact whys and wherefores of what I went through but I eventually reached a place where occasional excess is about as bad as it gets. So thanks a great big fat bloody bunch then, Spuntino, for inventing stuffed deep-fried olives, a snack so fiercely moreish that I was hooked from the first bite on my first visit two days after opening and returned twice in the space of a week to gorge on these hot, bitter, salty anchovy-farced pellets of pleasure, laced for all I know with a sprinkling of crack in the crispy crumb encasing them.

The peddler of these narcotic nuggets is of course Russell Norman, the man who brought us Polpo, Polpetto and most recently the Campari Bar, and whose tiny new diner in Soho already has fellow restaurant junkies queuing out the door for their fix. Although unmistakably from the Polpo stable - same reclaimed decor, same gorgeous tattooed staff, lights too low, music too loud, all creating a buzz like no other - the menu is much more Noo Yoiky, Italo-American than the neo-Venetian offering at its sibling sites. Larger snacks - spuntini - replace bite-size cicheti, and diner favourites like mac 'n' cheese, sliders and shoestring fries join a range of Italian-inspired salads and 'Plates' served in actual main course rather than sharing sizes. Polpettino this ain't.

Having never been to the Big Apple - I know, I know, it's on my To Go list - I didn't consider myself qualified to comment on Spuntino's New York credentials, so on my first visit I took along a real live American, Burberry high-up Anthony Garcia-Rios, who straight away pronounced that it was 'totally New York'. The loud, louche, sexy atmosphere, the queuing along a wall, cocktail in hand, for a seat ('no telephone, no reservations' barks the ultra-minimal website) and the scrubbed tiles and filament bulbs of the interior are, I'm reliably informed, a little slice of NYC in LDN.

As for the food, we foolishly ordered everything that sounded amazing, which was about half the menu (the rest sounds merely great). This resulted in a sorry surfeit of food and, I must admit, in an initial writing-off of the menu on my part as being too heavy and carb-laden when in fact all that was at fault was our ordering. 

In addition to those evil, enslaving olives we tried lardo and caperberry crostini, a ground beef and bone marrow slider and egg and soldiers before moving on to a selection of larger dishes. The crostini were lovely, the sharp tang of caperberries incising nicely through the unctuousness of cured fat; I've had silkier, sultrier variants elsewhere but that didn't stop me from ordering another round, and some more of those devilishly delicious drupes, on a solo visit two days later.

The slider was a very nice, rich little burger, which is not to damn with faint praise, I'm just not a burger enthusiast. More exciting was the egg and soldiers, a simple soft-boiled egg with the added bonus of a clever faux shell made of crackling, crunchy crumb - tart's comfort food.

Of the larger plates, the absolute stand-out - and a dish I knew I straight away I would order again, and did on visit three - was a courgette, mint and chilli pizzetta which there's no point over-describing; it was just a perfect eight inches of pure pleasure (sorry, sorry, I was sure I was over the sex addiction). Truffled egg toast was fun, a ham-less, gooey croque Madame which, mark my words, will  soon be every spendy Soho-dwelling queen's hangover remedy of choice. The only marginally so-what dish of the lot (and what a lot it was) was soft-shell crab with Tabasco aioli, the batter lacking crunch, the aioli punch.

On my next visit with company - this time publishing suprema, exquisitely elegant blogger and fellow good food addict Helen Brocklebank I tried, in addition to a terrific lamb and pickled cucumber slider and a good duck ham, pecorino and mint salad, a couple of Spuntino's deliciously different desserts. Pineapple with liquorice ice cream was a clever combination of sweetness and smoke, and for liquorice-disliking me one of those "I wouldn't normally eat this  but I'll take another spoonful if I must" moments. The by-a-country-mile winner though, and my favourite dish of all three visits bar those frickin' olives, was the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the 'bread' in fact thick, salty-sweet peanut butter ice cream encasing fruit-packed raspberry jam, all sprinkled with crushed peanut brittle. It was a super-sweet riot of tastes, textures and temperatures, and I loved it.

There's plenty to choose from drinks-wise; a few wines, a few (artisan) beers, a whole lotta bourbons and a list of classic cocktails, not to mention the extensive list which exists in manager and mixer-in-chief Ajax's head (his naked vodka Martini is among the best anywhere, and a long trail of tearful barmen will tell you how hard I am to please). Service is laid back but sassy ("You didn't ask me how I wanted the steak!" a boor bellowed; "It comes medium rare" the waiter snapped back), the aforementioned atmosphere amazing, the queue an hour long at peak times  - which will be all the time for at least a few weeks but is bound to peter off.

Prices are very fair; Anthony and I paid (OK, Anthony paid) more than strictly necessary, just over £50 a head, but that was for a lot of food and booze; Helen and I ordered more modestly, drank less but still left replete for under £30 each including 12.5% service.

What can I say? I'm addicted. There's just nothing not to love about the place and there are far more destructive things to be hooked on, but this may yet be the one that breaks me. So if one night you see me slumped begging in the seedy alleyway opposite, take pity and bring me out an order of deep fried olives won't you?

Spuntino, 61 Rupert Street, London W1D 7PW No telephone, no reservations, nothing on the website but it's http://www.spuntino.co.uk if you insist.

All photographs very kindly supplied by, and copyright of, Spuntino. So hands off.

Tokyo Diner, Chinatown

When I decided to start writing this blog and had to come up with a title, I wanted to choose something that was original but not too esoteric and self-explanatory without being trite. Although over time I've found myself wishing that I could have come up with something as brilliant as Thring For Your Supper (now alas soberly renamed 'Oliver Thring') or, my absolute favourite, And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Our Bread, I was and remain very satisfied with TwelvePointFivePercent. 


Occasionally when I tell people the name, it takes a few seconds for the penny to drop before they chuckle and say, "Oooh, twelve point five percent service!" but just about everyone gets that I took the title from the pretty-much-ubiquitous 'discretionary' service charge which, with the noble exception of the D&D group, just about everywhere whacks onto your bill these days.

Just about everywhere, that is, except for Tokyo Diner, a groovy little Japanese cafe just off Leicester Square, which not only doesn't add service to your bill, or stamp on your bill in red that service is not included, but actively states on it's menu that it won't take tips. Yes, you read that right, won't take tips.

According to the menu, 'Paying extra for service is a foreign concept. Since Tokyo Diner first opened in 1992, tips have never been expected or accepted. Any money which is mistakenly left on tables goes to St. Martin-in-the-Fields’ unit for the Homeless.' How brilliant is that? 'Mistakenly left on tables' has to be one of the subtlest pieces of cultural snobbery I've ever encountered, as if to say 'Ha! You English people and your crazy insistence on tipping! You get fleeced for twelve point five percent in most places and in the ones that don't, you feel obliged to leave it anyway! FOOLS!' Next time you're in a Japanese restaurant and service is added or the bill's left open, you might want to bear this in mind when deciding what, if anything, to leave.

The no tipping policy isn't the only endearing thing about Tokyo Diner (to which I was taken by my pal Greg when we were in need of sustenance and a stiff drink after seeing Debbie Reynolds' slightly surreal one-woman show on Thursday night). It's light, bright and spotlessly clean, with functional wooden bench seating configured in sociable twos, fours and sixes and set with everything one could possibly need including pots of disposable chopsticks, bottles of good soy and ton katsu sauces and a sprinkler of shichimi seasoning. As soon as you're seated, you're brought complimentary green tea and a little dish of rice crackers to graze on while choosing your food. Staff - almost all Japanese, for reasons explained on the quirky website - are enthusiastic, polite and humorous, evidently taking both pleasure and pride in what they're doing.

The menu offers a familiar selection of curries, noodle soups, bento boxes and sushi, all at super-reasonable prices. Should you be feeling particularly hungry (and we were - sitting through two hours of Carrie Fisher anecdotes works up one hell of an appetite), extra rice is offered with any dish completely free of charge - but 'please don't waste it' the menu exhorts. Another example of the restaurant's iron-clad social conscience is that there's no tuna on the menu, and there won't be until Tokyo Diner finds 'a trustworthy sustainable source'. Fortunately neither of us had our heart set on tuna that night and both went for a bento box, Greg's vegetarian, mine ton katsu.

Each was very good, and abundant, Greg's vegetarian option substituting a generous helping of stir-fried mixed vegetables for the crispy-coated pork fillet in mine. Other components were interesting and delicious; as well as a mound of rice we enjoyed pickles, a refreshing, sharp wakame salad, braised aubergine, some butter-soft salmon sashimi in mine and veggie California rolls in Greg's. The resulting whole was, as a good bento box should be, a substantial, balanced meal of complementary flavours and textures, which we both thoroughly enjoyed. Our enjoyment was further enhanced by a bottle of the house white wine, a very drinkable Vin de Pays du Comte Tolosan, strong in Sauvignon Blanc flavour and an incredible bargain at just £6.90. The mark-up on that can't be more than about a token 25% which just makes me like the people behind Tokyo Diner even more.

The bill, for food, that great value wine and absolutely not one single percent service, came to just sixteen quid each and could have been even less if we'd not been so badly in need of liquor. Tokyo Diner shoots right to the top of my list of favourite casual/cheap-eats options; instead of leaving a tip they ask that you 'Please come back and bring your friends' and it's a certainty that I will. I just hope that the no tipping policy doesn't catch on too widely, else I may find myself once again racking my meagre brains for a new blog title.

Tokyo Diner, 2 Newport Place, London WC2H 7JJ Tel:020 7287 8777 http://www.tokyodiner.com