Café Boheme, Soho

Café Boheme is, like the sex shops of Walker's Court and strip joints of Rupert Street, a stalwart of the Soho scene. For twenty years it's stood on the corner of Old Compton and Greek Streets, apparently open all hours, its pavement tables always occupied - one of the hottest spots on a street where people-watching is a competitive sport.

But despite my having haunted the streets of Soho for a similar period - arriving in London from the sticks at around the time Café Boheme opened for business - until recently I'd only ever been past, not in; many's the time I've sipped and supped at Soho House upstairs, but I've always found negotiating the phalanx of drinkers outside Café Boheme itself too like running the gauntlet for comfort and hurried on elsewhere.

When I finally did decide to go in a couple of weeks ago, lured by a new menu defiantly retro in its simplicity and remarkably kind in its pricing, it quickly became apparent why Café Boheme has remained so popular and for so long. The attractive room is classic Soho House (who bought Café Boheme along with the rest of the building when they opened in 1995); design details that will be familiar to anyone who's eaten at sibling sites Dean Street Townhouse and Hoxton Grill are all present and correct. To the uninitiated this means dark red leather on bar stools and banquettes, wood panelling, lots of crystal and a statement zinc-topped bar at the heart of it all.

While sipping an excellent Martini, dinner date Eliot and I shared some eggs mayonnaise - I said the menu was retro - which were great, especially piled onto some good fresh bread. I also ordered moules marinieres which were textbook; the wonderfully sweet, small mussels used resembled clochinas, popular in Valencia but unseen anywhere else, making for a welcome treat. 

Main courses were nothing to get over-excited about, but then café food generally isn't and it was none the worse for it. Eliot's grilled chicken salad with tarragon mayonnaise was well-executed, simple stuff; the ratio of leaves to protein was perhaps a bit skewed towards the greenery but it was a generous helping of good-quality poultry nonetheless. My steak - a decent-sized rib eye, served blue and full of flavour if a tad over-salted - came with fantastic frites, hot, crisp and oil-less as they should be. 

We skipped desserts in favour of a couple of glasses of Sauternes (as you do); together with a glass of Pinot Noir from the all-French list - which also offer s good choice of 500ml pichets - and service the bill still only worked out at about £35 each. You could eat well here for even less; steak frites start at just £10 for rump (my rib eye was only £16, the selection peaks at £19 for filet), and main courses average £12-£13. 

Being a café, bookings aren't taken but given that it's open eighteen hours a day, opening for breakfast at 8.30 and only closing at 2.30am, it should always be possible to drop in and get a seat. With food of this quality, at these prices, in such stylish surroundings, it's easy to see why Café Boheme has been such a lasting success. What's harder to understand is why, with food of this quality, at these prices, in such stylish surroundings, anyone would ever want to eat anywhere else.

Cafe Boheme, 13 Old Compton Street, London W1D 5JQ Tel: 020 7734 0623 http://www.cafeboheme.co.uk 

 





Posted by +Hugh Wright

Cecconi's, Mayfair

If you were to put a gun to my head  - and I'd really rather you didn't as it's just a figure of speech - I would say that Italian is my favourite food. Not only 'favourite' in that I eat it most often, but also in that it is the cuisine for which I feel the most affection and enthusiasm.

One of my earliest culinary memories is of my mum eating a plate of something terribly exotic-looking (at least to my three-year-old eyes) which turned out to be spaghetti bolognese and would be my first taste of 'foreign' cuisine. My ultimate comfort food when ill, depressed or down-hearted is tortellini in brodo from a recipe taught to me by an Italian ex. And when a couple of years ago I took a grown-up gap year and buggered off to eat my way around Europe and beyond for a few months, it was The Boot which won hands down for the quality, variety and memorability of the food on offer. There are many other cuisines that I like very much, but it's Italian I like the most.

Now, brace yourselves for another revelation but I think I also have a new favourite restaurant. Cecconi's, the perennially-popular trattoria on Burlington Gardens, is so bloody good that since my recent dinner there I haven't stopped raving about it, have been recommending it to everyone, and simply can't wait to go back. If you're sufficiently interested to know what it is about the place that's got me so worked up  - and you were prepared to put a gun to my head to find out my favourite food let's not forget, so I'm guessing that you are - it can be explained in a very small nutshell: Cecconi's does everything that one would expect of a restaurant very well indeed.

To begin with there's the physical appearance of the restaurant itself. It's located on a corner of a very smart Mayfair block, behind Ralph Lauren's flagship megastore, across from the elegant Burlington Arcade and adjacent to Savile Row. The frontage is made up entirely of high french windows which allow a clear view of the inviting dimly-lit room within, but once inside far from feeling like being in a goldfish bowl one feels warm and cosseted, and the outside world feels far away. The interior's a beauty, incredibly luxurious - all huge ornamental crystal mirrors, dark wood, green leather chairs and vast velvet banquettes - but not flashy or over-the-top, the monochromed tiled floors and low light tempering, without obscuring, the opulence.

Then there's the terrific service from super-friendly, super-committed staff, from the greeter's enthusiastic 'Buona sera!' to general manager Giacomo Maccioni's beaming tableside banter and each and every waiter's courtesy and attentiveness. When we (being best pal Andrew and I) asked our waiter for his recommendations, he didn't just rattle off the dishes he'd been told to push that night as happens in many establishments; instead he asked us pertinent questions such as how hungry were we, and did we like this or that, before making his measured suggestions. Wine is left for guests to pour themselves, tap water is served in attractive but also highly practical tall jugs and dishes come out from the kitchen at exactly the right intervals demonstrating that things run as well behind the scenes as they do front of house.

And of course, there's the food - the wonderful, delicious, and  - I use the word with the thunking great caveat that I base this only on my knowledge and personal experience, not any purported expertise - authentic, Italian food. To start with we shared a house selection of cured meats, bruschette and cicheti (which, until the arrival of Polpo and Polpetto, Cecconi's claimed to be the only restaurant in London to serve) and a plate of vitello tonnato. Both were stunningly good, the highlights of the selection, all of which was excellent, being peppery, salty Umbrian sausages, perfect not-quite-set, milky mozzarella and some lovely prosciutto San Daniele, as pink as Babe and just as tender. The vitello tonnato - thinly-sliced cold veal criss-crossed with a creamy, mayonnaise-like sauce made with tuna - was a textbook rendition of a classic and immediately transported me back to another favourite restaurant, Quattro Leoni in Florence, where I last enjoyed this dish.

Although in Italy it would pass as ignorant foreigner behaviour (though in fairness, my behaviour in most countries passes for that too) we both chose pasta as a main rather than intermediate course, pappardelle with venison ragu and chestnuts for Andrew and crab ravioli for me. While my ravioli were delicious, feather-light parcels of sweet white crab meat just moistened with a couple of spoonfuls of buttery broth, I suffered serious plate envy at the sight of Andrew's huge bowl of inch-wide pasta ribbons nestled in a chunky, dark sauce. It tasted as good as it looked; cooked long and slowly, the venison ragu was as intense and robust as my dish was delicate and light, the scattering of chestnuts adding sweetness. A side order of crisp, salty zucchini fritti disappeared as quickly as they must have been fried.

To finish, Andrew ordered the chocolate fondant with pistachio ice cream and I the selection of Italian cheese. We were warned that the fondant would take twelve minutes, and exactly that time later our waiter delivered a neatly plated prism of dark, glossy chocolate loveliness and a simple, elegant plate of three cheeses - one blue, one hard, one goat's, all very good - served with pears and honey. The fondant was exactly that, melting, and oozed most satisfyingly as the spoon went in and the filling seeped out, mingling with the bright green ice cream as pleasingly on the eye as on the palate. I couldn't have been happier with my cheeses; the pears-and-honey combination is one I love and was made even better by an accompanying glass of port. Drinks-wise, we had also enjoyed a bright, floral 2009 Veridicchio dei Castelli di Jesi, as well as couple of pre-dinner cocktails including a superlative Negroni.

All of this combined - great room, faultless service and fantastic food  - makes for a very happy clientele, and the enjoyment in the place is palpable, manifesting itself in the sort of buzz that new start-ups and faded greats alike - I'm talking about you, The Ivy - can only dream of. Cecconi's feels like its always been there, and on-and-off since 1978 it has, which is forever in restaurant terms. This alchemical ability to make a venue and its customers feel like old friends even when they've only just met is the secret of Cecconi's-owner Soho House Group's global success; it comes as no surprise that Cecconi's now has branches, closely modelled on the original, in West Hollywood and Miami Beach.

None of this comes cheaply; cocktails, three courses, one side, one port and service racked us up a bill of just over £150. Strip away the extras however, and order a cheaper wine (there are seven available for less than the £31 we paid for our Verdicchio) and you could get away with about £45-a-head, less at lunch - or even breakfast, as Cecconi's is open from 7am until very late. Alternatively, the bar - the focal point of the room with its spotless glass panels, high stools and Prosecco on draught - would make a lovely spot for a quick wallet-friendly bite or romantic assignation at any time of day. I certainly hope to get back to my new favourite restaurant as soon, and as often, as possible.

Cecconi's, 5a Burlington Gardens, London W1S 3EP Tel: 020 7434 1500 http://www.cecconis.co.uk 

Hoxton Grill, Shoreditch

I seldom (though by no means never) write about breakfast. When it comes to your wakey wakey eggs 'n' bacey there's really very little that separates the fantastically good from the dreadfully bad and even the most talented of writers - which I naturally do not pretend to be - would have a hard job of making something as quotidian as, say, boiled eggs and soldiers sound exciting (Nigel Slater's tear-jerking food memoir Toast being a notable, must-read exception). That said, I think it's important to recognise places that do what they do well, and Hoxton Grill does an extremely decent breakfast.

Located in the lobby of the ultra-hip Hoxton Hotel on Great Eastern Street, Hoxton Grill is an all-day affair opening at dawn's crack for brekkie and closing only when the last hotel resident or asymmetrically-coiffed visitor has disappeared into the night. It's visually appealing with ample red leather banquettes (echoing its first-cousin-once-removed, Dean Street Townhouse), dark wood furniture and the bare brick walls considered de rigeur for this part of town. The breakfast menu reflects the style of the lunch and dinner offerings, namely familiar Brit and European staples done stylishly and well at premium but still good-value prices.

On the first of two recent visits, both with my sister (who, incidentally, makes a Full English of such stupendous quality that any restaurant would be proud to serve it) I tried the eggs Benedict royale, which were excellent - good eggs and muffins, lovely sharp Hollandaise and ample butter-soft slices of delicious salmon. On visit two, needing something salty and substantial to counter an unexpectedly severe hangover, I wolfed down a plateful of superb corned beef hash, using the superfluous but very welcome toast it came with to make a sandwich of the accompanying fried egg. Sis on both occasions ordered and enjoyed creamy scrambled eggs on toast with bacon, declaring it all good except, first time around, for the unnecessary sprinkling of chives (which she likes about as much as Reeves & Mortimer's mate Les).

Service is efficient, fast and nicely formal, respecting the likelihood that valuable business might be being conducted over the granola and fruit platters. It's a nice contrast to the forced over-mateyness which blights so many of the area's eating spots. The price reflects the quality, location and attention to detail - tea is served in smart individual silver pots with strainers, juices are freshly squeezed from primo fruits - but is far from expensive; on both occasions our bill came to about £12 each including food, tea, juice and 12.5% service.

My time with my sister is limited and therefore precious; our breakfast get-togethers came about as a way of making sure we see each other on her increasingly less frequent days working in London. It follows that where we spend that time has to be somewhere a little special, that adds a sense of occasion to the otherwise fairly mundane practice of breaking our fast. After several trials and errors, I do believe we've found it.

Hoxton Grill, 81 Great Eastern Street, London EC2A 3HU Tel: 020 7739 9111 http://www.hoxtongrill.com/

Dean Street Townhouse

Pamela Mitford, the least well-known but no less fascinating of those six remarkable sisters, had a particular gift for remembering menus from luncheons and dinners that she had attended, even many years after the event. Almost every letter to any of her sisters (available in this fascinating book) includes at least some culinary reference. This was a source of great amusement to her siblings who, having little else to tease her about - Pamela having chosen a life rather more ordinary than they - would playfully mock her almost photographic recall of what had been consumed by whom on occasions that they could not even remember.

I envy such anamnestic ability; while I am passionate about food, and (I hope evidently) in writing about it, it's rare for me to actually remember what I've eaten at a particular meal for particularly long. The fact that even now, several days after dinner at Dean Street Townhouse, I can still remember not just everything I ate but everything my companion ate, is exceptional – which pretty much sums up my experience of this Soho newcomer.

Dean Street Townhouse - as well as the restaurant there's an affordable boutique hotel - occupies a large corner site which, if my memory serves me well, used to be a Pitcher & Piano. Entrance to the restaurant  is via a very discreet doorway, supervised by an improbably handsome young doorman who gives new arrivals a lightning-fast, almost imperceptible once-over just to ensure they're not unaware of the change of ownership and direction. It's a nice conceit; one's made to feel rather in the know for even being there, and that's before setting foot over the threshold.

Once in, the buzz of the room almost knocks you off your feet; it's not loud, or overbearing, there's just a very palpable air that this is a place for conversation and animation, not sotto voce plotting or culinary navel gazing. The welcome, from maitre d' Gina Glennon (ex-Scott's, J. Sheekey and Le Caprice) is effusive and sincere; here is a woman who knows how to make total strangers feel like old friends. 

One side of the large main room is dominated by an imposing dark wood bar, while the other side accommodates banks of red leather banquettes and about two dozen tables for twos and fours. There's a couple of booths at the back of the room for larger groups, and separated from the main room by heavy curtains is The Parlour, an altogether cosier space featuring rather racy wallpaper and comfy armchair seating. Adorning every wall is a fine selection of monochromatic modern art ("Is that a Mark Titchner?" I asked Gina as she led us to our table; "Oh yes!" she replied with evident pride) and the lighting is subtle and just right - as well as neo-Gothic chandeliers overhead, tall candles in Wee Willie Winkie-style brass holders adorn every table. It's altogether a very agreeable place to be.

What's also highly agreeable is the complete lack of pretension of the menu. The food is solidly, unapologetically British - not even modern British - with just a few concessions to American and European palates. Nothing needs translating or explaining, and although provenance is clearly important it's not gone into in excessive detail, so crab is identified as being from Dorset and the rib steak from Bannockburn, but without any tiresome attribution to a particular net, field, farmer or fisherman. It's the kind of food which one could, and most likely does, eat at home, but with the convenience of being cooked - superbly as it turns out - by someone else.

To start off, PV went for fried duck egg with wild mushrooms and I chose twice-baked haddock souffle. Both were as delicious and comforting as they sound; a slice of toasted brioche added sweetness to PV's rich, soft egg and bosky mushrooms, and my adeptly seasoned, light-as-parfait souffle came swathed in an indulgent chive beurre blanc.

Main courses were also expertly rendered. My pan-fried ray with capers and lemon was a butch, thick-cut slab of fish accompanied by just the right quantity of well-judged caper butter and PV's salt beef with caraway dumplings and pickle was a generous, colourful bowlful of thick tranches of tender meat, with carrots and new potatoes as well as the advertised dumplings and gherkins. We ordered a side dish of creamed spinach more out of interest than necessity; it was also very good, one of those rare examples of a side dish actually adding something more to a meal than bulk.

Though all the puddings sounded appealing - good old British favourites including apple pie and queen of puddings - from the moment we saw it on the menu we knew we had to have the sherry trifle for two. The brilliance of this dish lay in its being completely unbastardised, a huge traditional glass coupe filled with layers of fruit in jelly, real vanilla custard and an abundance of whipped cream, all topped with crumbled meringue - home-made I'm sure - and flaked almonds. Oh and sherry. Lots, and lots of sherry. Superb as it was we struggled to finish it; the kitchen at Dean Street Townhouse holds no truck with stingy portions.

From the fairly concise and ungreedily marked-up wine list, we chose a 2008 Roberto Sarotto Gavi di Gavi which provided enough dry apple fruit to complement my fish choices while being robust enough to tackle the richness of PV's duck egg and beef. The list is almost exclusively Old World with a strong bias towards France, although there's a handful of New World choices in the mid price range. What's delightful about the list is that it starts low - at just £15.25 for the cheapest white and £16.50 for red - and peaks at (and I use the next word  relatively) only £140 or so, with the climb from bottom to top coming in manageable steps. This means that, whatever your wine budget might be, you will get a far better bottle at Dean Street Townhouse for your money than you would at many another restaurant playing at the same level.

Service was, at all times, attentive, friendly and polished; drinks took at times a little too long to arrive (our dessert wine came only when we had all but finished the trifle) but that was the only, minor, hiccup. Importantly, every single member of staff we came into contact with seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themself, and determined to ensure that we should too. There are very few places that one can say that about.

Which, neatly, brings me back to my initial point and the point which will ensure that Dean Street Townhouse thrives: it is truly exceptional. You're treated like a VIP whether or not you're a celebrity or media mogul, of which there were several on the night we visited. You are served unintimidating, unpretentious, but excellent food and wine, and charged very fairly for it. You're served by staff who are polite, professional and who clearly love what they are doing and know exactly when to be at your table and when to leave you alone.

You have fun at Dean Street Townhouse - and believe me, everyone at every table was smiling. When you leave, it's with a sense that not only has your visit been greatly appreciated, but that you would be very welcome to stay the night - a note on the menu advises that rooms start at a bargain £95 - and that if you really must go, then everyone would like it very much if you were to come back soon. And come back soon I most certainly will; Dean Street Townhouse falls into the rare category of being a restaurant that I can't wait to return to. 

Pamela Mitford once mused that were she ever to write her memoirs, they would be all about food. Although the likelihood of anyone ever wishing to read (let alone publish) my memoirs is remote to say the least, that theoretical volume were I to write it would, too, contain a great deal about food. And there, in the chapter entitled 'Memorable Meals', would be at least a paragraph or two on Dean Street Townhouse. 

Dean Street Townhouse, 69-71 Dean Street, London W1D 3SE Tel: 020 7434 1775 http://www.deanstreettownhouse.com/