Sussex, Soho

The sadly-departed Arbutus on Frith Street introduced many Londoners to the joys of mid-range fine-dining, and holds a special place in so many memories. Classy without being stuffy, precise and refined without being ludicrously expensive, it sat in that sweet spot of accessible and good value, the first-choice of many people who wanted a special evening out but didn't want to go full-blown tasting menu. Any restaurant closure is regrettable to some extent (meh, possibly not Jamie's Italian) but Arbutus left a mid-range bistro hole in Soho, a place not overly blessed with decent mid-range bistros.

Taking over this prime spot on the top of Frith Street (if you ignore the short-lived Flavour Bastard, and I very much suggest you do) is Sussex, and it's a pleasure to report they've very much taken the warmth and vibe - and price-points - of Arbutus and blessed Soho once again with the kind of place you can pop in for a bar snack and martini, or sit down to four courses and a bottle of English sparkling. Sussex doesn't reinvent the wheel (although admittedly some of its creations are rather left-field) but it is, by design, a friendly neighbourhood spot that will keep huge swathes of Soho society happy, and judging by the crowds on a cold Wednesday night it's already hit the ground running.

The bar menu at Sussex is the first thing to catch the eye. Marmite éclairs, oysters with bloody mary gel, torched langoustine tails with lardo - this was an ambitious list of snacks, and pretty keenly priced. But we weren't about to start eating perched at the bar when we had a nice comfy table waiting, so after checking if all the bar menu items were available on the main ALC (they were), we drained our daiquiris and headed next door to the main dining room.

These are the Marmite éclairs. Not the prettiest of things to look at perhaps, but the pastry was soft without being soggy, the mixture inside a lovely smooth mushroom parfait with only a touch (thankfully) of the advertised Marmite, and the little pickle on top was a good balance to the richness inside. These are a bit of a signature nibble of this restaurant group and have certainly improved since I tried them at Rabbit in Chelsea (also run by the same people) a few years back.

Langoustine tails, though not overcooked and still nice and plump and moist, had just a vague whiff of something slightly less than fresh - whether they'd been frozen, or whether it's just a side effect of the 'torching', I can't tell you. Even so, they were nice enough, and paired well with the chunks of lardon, and all said and done £12 isn't too bad for 3 langoustine tails in a nice restaurant in Soho.

Bar snacks out of the way, it was on with the starters proper. Monkfish cheeks were fantastic, with a golden crust like seared scallops and dressed in a light lemon velouté. They gave a surprising amount of resistance on the bite, which I'm going to assume was deliberate because I thought it just made them that much more interesting to eat - meaty and dense.

Beef tartare was fantastic, and for whatever reason there's not often you can say that in this town. I've had pretty dreadful versions at otherwise very well-regarded places, and paid through the nose for them too - this had a lovely loose hand-chopped texture, the cheddar crisp on top was actually a welcome contrast in texture and umami taste, and even the little blobs of beetroot jam, which could easily have been an affectation too far, played a welcome part. Right up there with the best tartare in town (see also: Zedel Brasserie, and, if you're feeling flush, Bob Bob Ricard).

As a little extra off-menu treat between courses, we were served a squirrel raviolo soaked in veal jus. Now I don't know how much the kitchens at Sussex knew about my personal obsessions before I sat down that evening, but whether through design or sheer chance they landed on every single one of my favourite things - game, pasta, veal jus - in one dish and by jolly it was glorious. The squirrels, apparently, are trapped on a farm somewhere down south, and are not only free range and organic (probably) but vermin, so you're doing the world a favour by eating them. Well, that's my excuse, anyway.

Mains, if I'm going to be completely honest, weren't quite up to the levels of what had arrived before. My venison was nicely cooked but the sauce was a bit thin, and I'm afraid the faggot - essentially the main reason I ordered it in the first place - was unforgivably dry and difficult to eat.

Cod was better - Sussex really know how to get a nice brown crust on their seafood, which is good - and the crab ravioli another winning way with pasta, but the whole thing was incredibly salty, spoiling it a bit. For someone who inhabits restaurants as often as I do to have an issue with salt levels, well, something must have really gone wrong somewhere. That said, pretty thing isn't it? So a slightly more careful hand with the seasoning and they'll have themselves a top fish dish.

I don't know why shoestring fries are such a rarity in this country - in the US it feels like they're becoming the default side for diner food - but I always order them when I see them and these were great, dressed in a clever vinegar powder like a posh bowl of Walker's crisps. I like how Sussex have really thought about how to make every element of the menu more interesting and attractive - I've mentioned how well the bar snack menu reads but the full a la carte is full of little twists and surprises as well. It's a place that almost certainly would reward repeat visits.

Completely stuffed by this point we just about managed to squeeze in a cheeseboard before admitting defeat. Tor goat's and a washed rind who's name escapes me were both immaculately kept and a perfect temperature, and came served both with lovely house made fennelseed crackers and also some sugared walnuts which were so insanely addictive I don't know how we managed to leave the place without raiding the kitchen for another fix. Sussex didn't need to serve house crackers or sugared walnuts with their cheeseboard, and indeed if what had come before had been less successful I could easily moan about them loading the 'board with unnecessary extras, but here it just felt right. Hey, I don't make the rules. No wait, I do make the rules, and so I'm allowed to be fickle if I want.

So although not perfect, and with various mistakes here and there enough to dock it a few points, Sussex is a restaurant with its heart in the right place and showing enough personality and ambition to set it apart from so many Bistros in town where mid-range is too often synonymous for middle-of-the-road. Time will tell whether it's a worthy successor to the legendary Arbutus, but in the first few months at least they've found a few fans. And quite right too - there's a lot to like here. An awful lot indeed.

7/10

I was invited to review Sussex and didn't see a bill

Sussex, Soho

The sadly-departed Arbutus on Frith Street introduced many Londoners to the joys of mid-range fine-dining, and holds a special place in so many memories. Classy without being stuffy, precise and refined without being ludicrously expensive, it sat in that sweet spot of accessible and good value, the first-choice of many people who wanted a special evening out but didn’t want to go full-blown tasting menu. Any restaurant closure is regrettable to some extent (meh, possibly not Jamie’s Italian) but Arbutus left a mid-range bistro hole in Soho, a place not overly blessed with decent mid-range bistros.

Taking over this prime spot on the top of Frith Street (if you ignore the short-lived Flavour Bastard, and I very much suggest you do) is Sussex, and it’s a pleasure to report they’ve very much taken the warmth and vibe — and price-points — of Arbutus and blessed Soho once again with the kind of place you can pop in for a bar snack and martini, or sit down to four courses and a bottle of English sparkling. Sussex doesn’t reinvent the wheel (although admittedly some of its creations are rather left-field) but it is, by design, a friendly neighbourhood spot that will keep huge swathes of Soho society happy, and judging by the crowds on a cold Wednesday night it’s already hit the ground running.

The bar menu at Sussex is the first thing to catch the eye. Marmite éclairs, oysters with bloody mary gel, torched langoustine tails with lardo — this was an ambitious list of snacks, and pretty keenly priced. But we weren’t about to start eating perched at the bar when we had a nice comfy table waiting, so after checking if all the bar menu items were available on the main ALC (they were), we drained our daiquiris and headed next door to the main dining room.

These are the Marmite éclairs. Not the prettiest of things to look at perhaps, but the pastry was soft without being soggy, the mixture inside a lovely smooth mushroom parfait with only a touch (thankfully) of the advertised Marmite, and the little pickle on top was a good balance to the richness inside. These are a bit of a signature nibble of this restaurant group and have certainly improved since I tried them at Rabbit in Chelsea (also run by the same people) a few years back.

Langoustine tails, though not overcooked and still nice and plump and moist, had just a vague whiff of something slightly less than fresh — whether they’d been frozen, or whether it’s just a side effect of the ‘torching’, I can’t tell you. Even so, they were nice enough, and paired well with the chunks of lardon, and all said and done £12 isn’t too bad for 3 langoustine tails in a nice restaurant in Soho.

Bar snacks out of the way, it was on with the starters proper. Monkfish cheeks were fantastic, with a golden crust like seared scallops and dressed in a light lemon velouté. They gave a surprising amount of resistance on the bite, which I’m going to assume was deliberate because I thought it just made them that much more interesting to eat — meaty and dense.

Beef tartare was fantastic, and for whatever reason there’s not often you can say that in this town. I’ve had pretty dreadful versions at otherwise very well-regarded places, and paid through the nose for them too — this had a lovely loose hand-chopped texture, the cheddar crisp on top was actually a welcome contrast in texture and umami taste, and even the little blobs of beetroot jam, which could easily have been an affectation too far, played a welcome part. Right up there with the best tartare in town (see also: Zedel Brasserie, and, if you’re feeling flush, Bob Bob Ricard).

As a little extra off-menu treat between courses, we were served a squirrel raviolo soaked in veal jus. Now I don’t know how much the kitchens at Sussex knew about my personal obsessions before I sat down that evening, but whether through design or sheer chance they landed on every single one of my favourite things — game, pasta, veal jus — in one dish and by jolly it was glorious. The squirrels, apparently, are trapped on a farm somewhere down south, and are not only free range and organic (probably) but vermin, so you’re doing the world a favour by eating them. Well, that’s my excuse, anyway.

Mains, if I’m going to be completely honest, weren’t quite up to the levels of what had arrived before. My venison was nicely cooked but the sauce was a bit thin, and I’m afraid the faggot — essentially the main reason I ordered it in the first place — was unforgivably dry and difficult to eat.

Cod was better — Sussex really know how to get a nice brown crust on their seafood, which is good — and the crab ravioli another winning way with pasta, but the whole thing was incredibly salty, spoiling it a bit. For someone who inhabits restaurants as often as I do to have an issue with salt levels, well, something must have really gone wrong somewhere. That said, pretty thing isn’t it? So a slightly more careful hand with the seasoning and they’ll have themselves a top fish dish.

I don’t know why shoestring fries are such a rarity in this country — in the US it feels like they’re becoming the default side for diner food — but I always order them when I see them and these were great, dressed in a clever vinegar powder like a posh bowl of Walker’s crisps. I like how Sussex have really thought about how to make every element of the menu more interesting and attractive — I’ve mentioned how well the bar snack menu reads but the full a la carte is full of little twists and surprises as well. It’s a place that almost certainly would reward repeat visits.

Completely stuffed by this point we just about managed to squeeze in a cheeseboard before admitting defeat. Tor goat’s and a washed rind who’s name escapes me were both immaculately kept and a perfect temperature, and came served both with lovely house made fennelseed crackers and also some sugared walnuts which were so insanely addictive I don’t know how we managed to leave the place without raiding the kitchen for another fix. Sussex didn’t need to serve house crackers or sugared walnuts with their cheeseboard, and indeed if what had come before had been less successful I could easily moan about them loading the ‘board with unnecessary extras, but here it just felt right. Hey, I don’t make the rules. No wait, I do make the rules, and so I’m allowed to be fickle if I want.

So although not perfect, and with various mistakes here and there enough to dock it a few points, Sussex is a restaurant with its heart in the right place and showing enough personality and ambition to set it apart from so many Bistros in town where mid-range is too often synonymous for middle-of-the-road. Time will tell whether it’s a worthy successor to the legendary Arbutus, but in the first few months at least they’ve found a few fans. And quite right too — there’s a lot to like here. An awful lot indeed.

7/10

I was invited to review Sussex and didn’t see a bill

Silo, Hackney Wick

Silo is a restaurant founded on the idea of not having a bin, and is apparently — their words — the «world’s first zero waste restaurant». At first glance, this seems to raise more questions than it answers. What do they do with used teabags? What happens to milk cartons, egg boxes and string, are they donated to a local craft workshop or primary school? More importantly, what happens to actual leftovers from customers’ plates? Do I even want to know?

It’s very easy to be cynical about somewhere whose environmental credentials are so radical and so unapologetically stated (just ask Greta Thunberg) but the fact is, the world needs more restaurants like Silo. Not just because they’re serving fantastic food for not very much money — I’ll get onto that shortly — but because the planet is dying, food waste in particular is a huge problem and if somewhere like this, a smart, modern fine dining restaurant in central London can go waste-free without sacrificing any of the things that make for a successful evening out, there’s absolutely no excuse for the rest of us not to at least make a bit of effort.

And speaking of effort, it’s clear that the team behind Silo have really thought hard about the environmental impact of every aspect of the restaurant experience. Instead of printing menus for every service, the list of dishes is projected onto a huge whitewashed wall, which as well as saving paper also provides a dramatic design statement and striking backdrop to the events on the floor. The décor more generally, by the way, is tasteful Scandi-minimalist, and all feels remarkably high-end considering most of it is up- or recycled (I think we were told the napkins used to be curtains, or something).

All of which would be a complete waste of time had the food not been any good, but fortunately head chef Doug McMaster (who you may end up chatting with if you grab a seat at the bar, and I very much recommend you do) has put together a sophisticated, Nordic-leaning tasting menu of strictly seasonal British ingredients, and much like the décor, if it’s largely composed of offcuttings and surplus stock, well, it certainly doesn’t taste like it. The first snack is a little roll of chilli-pickled radish containing soft cheese, which was sweet and crunchy with a gentle heat, a great start.

Silo make their own bread — but of course — and it’s wonderful, right up there with the best sourdough in town. They also (it goes without saying) churn their own butter, and that, too, is quite lovely, a nice healthy-looking yellow and soft texture. Both very much brought to mind the bread offering at Where The Light Gets In in Stockport — in fact the whole operation bears more than a passing resemblance to that Jewel in the North.

The first proper course was a kind of optical illusion, a culinary sleight-of-hand. These aren’t actually normal red beets but white beetroots which had been glazed in something they called ‘beetroot molasses’ (essentially an incredibly thick, sweet reduction of beetroot peel and various other waste vegetable bits), the end product having an almost luminescent glow, like someone had put a lightbulb under them. And alongside the extrordinary visuals, they tasted fantastic too — lemon verbena adding a nice floral note, and what I think was rapeseed oil a gentle pepperiness.

Next, artichokes that had been cooked if not on coals then very, very near to them — charred and crisp on the outside, but soft and sweet within, an addictive combination. They were served with an outrageously salty and powerful — in a good way — Stichelton blue cheese sauce, and then to offset all that umami a neat dollop of «ruby» saeurkraut (maybe involving port?) which cleansed and sweetened.

I imagine cuttlefish makes quite a good waste-free ingredient as most of the animal can be eaten without much processing, and the bits you can’t eat such as the beak can presumably be repurposed as, I don’t know, trendy cutlery or hung up in a budgie’s cage. This particular example, with its char-grilled tentacles and bed of turnips and kimchi, had a spectrum of colour and range of texture that made the absolute best of this (very sustainable indeed) animal. Very impressive stuff.

Even better was braised beef from ex-dairy cows, a cut I think they said was from between the ribs which is usually thrown away or used for cheap mince. Slow cooked to a dreamily soft texture more akin to sweetbreads than rib meat, they were glazed in another one of Silo’s signature reductions — dark and salty and densely flavoured. A chunk of celeriac did the job of carbs, overhung with an evocative fug of charcoal smoke and it was all finished with a kind of buttery/herby affair.

If I’m going to be brutal, after the fireworks that had come before the dessert at Silo seemed a bit unambitious. It was a perfectly nice blob of goat’s milk ice cream — not overly goaty, which was a relief — but the miso caramel didn’t really have any flavour other than ‘sweet’, and the pine snow was pretty bland. That all said, I always appreciate a good smooth ice cream — I don’t know much about the environmental credentials of a Pacojet but they’d either used that or something very similar to it possibly upcycled from freezer parts and a hand blender — and did quite happily eat it all.

Usually, when a restaurant experience goes as smoothly as this, and when you’re treated to food this good, the cliché is that those responsible make the whole operation look «easy». And it’s true there’s a natural poise and balance to everything Silo do, from the layout of the room to the presentation of the food, and every aspect of the service including the procession of wines (natural, of course), beers (unpasteurised, darling) and cocktails (by Ryan Chetiyawardana) is effortlessly easy to enjoy. But for a waste-free restaurant, where almost every aspect of the dining experience needs to be reconsidered and in some cases rebuilt from the ground-up, the skill and effort that must have gone into it all is all the more heroic. It’s a commitment to the cause bordering on obsessive — quite rightly, too, considering what’s at stake.

So Silo is not just a great restaurant, it’s an extremely important one. You can sneer all you like at the concept, these bunch of worthy Hackney hipsters breaking their backs to serve a sub-£50 tasting menu and save the planet at the same time, but for all their talent and labour and attention to detail all they’re asking you to do at the end of the day is enjoy your dinner, and there’s very little chance you won’t be doing that. That extra glow of smugness from doing the right thing for the planet? Well, that’s just a nice little bonus.

9/10

I was invited to Silo and didn’t see a bill — but you can see the prices on the menu there. Very reasonable I’m sure you’ll agree.

The White Swan at Fence, Lancashire

It’s hard to imagine now, but on the run-up to my latest trip to Manchester it was the Bull & Bear I was certain was going to be the weekend’s rip-roaring success of a flagship meal, whereas the White Swan at Fence I was more uncertain about. Michelin stars tend to do strange things to rural gastropubs — prices creep up, service becomes more formal, menus more elaborate and fussy. I’d heard good things, of course — I’m not about to waste good money on a complete gamble — but I’d been trying to keep my expectations in check, and if nothing else the previous day’s Sky-Sports-Sponsored weirdness certainly helped with that.

I needn’t have worried. From the moment we stepped inside this handsome Victorian building, given the warmest of welcomes and shown to our cosy table next to the fireplace, it was clear everything was going to go very well indeed. It’s often a tricky balance to get right, holding on to your soul as a community pub while acknowledging the kind of expectations (and prices) that the Michelin accolades bring, but the team at the Swan have created an atmosphere of easy grace and geniality that feels absolutely right for the occasion, and the kind of food they’re serving.

Food, by the way, that’s amongst the very best I’ve ever eaten in the country. The menu — at lunchtime anyway — is charmingly short, just two choices each for starter, main and dessert, plus the option of a tasting menu featuring presumably slightly smaller portions of all of the above. It’s a mini work of art in itself, with suppliers namechecked, premium ingredients highlighted, and yet accessible — there’s nothing too clever-clever or pretentious. The whole operation, in fact, from the décor to the menu to the Christmas decorations, speaks of a group of people with absolutely exquisite taste.

Bread came out first. Warm crusty buns, with an interesting scone-y texture, with a neat quenelle of room-temperature butter (good) and a portion of chicken liver parfait with shaved foie gras (so, so good). For a kitchen to come up with a parfait this notable and give it away as an unadvertised extra to every table shows both a generosity of spirit and a determination to impress in every given moment.

Then, a pretty stoneware beaker containing a tomato consommé covered with basil foam and topped with a few bits of crunchy pancetta. I had forgotten to advise that one of our party was pescatarian, but a replacement consommé was whipped up in less than a minute (the same, minus the pancetta presumably) which just show you how smooth the front of house are and how efficient the kitchen. It had a good deep tomato flavour, the basil as good a match for it as you would hope, and it all added up to a very pleasant, warming little introduction.

I’d like to tell you about the warm smoked salmon starter — with wasbi buttermilk, apple, yuzu and herring roe — and I’m sure it’s lovely, but nobody on our table wanted to sacrifice their celeriac ‘risotto’ with Perigord truffles, so I’ll have to tell you about that instead. Once it arrived, nobody regretted their decision. Tiny rice-grain sized chunks of celeriac actually make a better base for a risotto than most risotto rice I’ve tried, the parmesan came both as a kind of super-tasty hollandaise and shaved on top, and of course a few huge slices of winter truffle added extra seasonal cheer. Refined without being boring, attractive without being prissy, this was an absolutely great dish.

Fortunately, thanks to the pescatarian, I can tell you about both mains, although having tried the Isle of Gigha halibut with spiced onion fondue, saffron, red prawn and tarragon, I can assure you the fish option was hardly a runner-up. Beautifully cooked, meaty halibut, skin gently bronzed, was topped with a single plump red prawn, sweet and satisfying, and all sat in a frothy sauce that was so superbly balanced between dairy and umami seafood that it drew gasps from all of us, one at a time, as we tried it.

Suckling pig came as a tender medallion of pink loin, and a neat section of belly, a delicate layer of skin crisped up like the finest pastry. With it, silky-smooth blobs of cauliflower purée, roast shallot (or pearl onion, not sure) filled with some kind of light mayonnaise, little sprigs of I think broccoli, look it doesn’t matter, all you need to know is that it was elegantly presented, technically stunning, and tasted so good you never wanted it to end.

By this point, despite the fact our appetites were beginning to fail us (a portion of super-crunchy triple-cooked chips had plugged any gaps left by the starters and mains) we asked if we could cheekily share one cheese course between 3. They obliged, of course, and proceeded to wheel over what is surely the most impressive cheeseboard in the North West of England. All bases were covered, from washed-rind to blue, and though local makers were featured there were a couple from the continent too. In the end we settled on a Langres, a creamy English blue which I’ve forgotten the name of (sorry), and the best cheese in Britain bar none, Martin Gott’s St James. They were, in case you even needed to ask, perfectly kept and the perfect temperature.

Desserts continued the theme of just being blindingly good in every way. A pre-dessert of caramel custard was like eating a melted Mars bar — this is of course a good thing — and Sticky Toffee Pudding came arranged as a kind of festive tart, topped with winter nuts and berries and a very nice ice cream.

Mango soufflé, an impressive enough bit of work by itself having risen beautifully, came with more top ice cream work, this time coconut flavoured, and a generous jug of heavenly white chocolate sauce. Like everything that had come before, it was sophisticated, elegant and a masterclass in technique but also, most importantly, a riot of flavour.

You’ll have probably guessed where I’m going with all this. The White Swan at Fence has, in the dying days of 2019, leapt straight into my own personal top 10 restaurants and may even have nudged the top 5. Everything that’s life-affirming and joyous about eating out has been studied, worked at and executed flawlessly, a perfect dance of harmony between a charming (there’s that word again, but they really are) front of house and a world-class kitchen, everyone seemingly having the time of their lives. It’s deeply infectious, and utterly wonderful.

And so for a restaurant that does everything right, and nothing wrong, it inevitably follows I have to give it my highest mark. For only the second time this year, I’ve been lucky enough to be served a flawless meal by a small, passionate team that love what they do and communicate that love in spades. You’d have to have a heart of stone to not utterly fall for everything about the place, and I just can’t say enough good things about it. But maybe I’d better stop for now, and give you a second to get on the phone and book a table yourself. It’ll be the best decision you’ll ever make.

10/10