What I've Been Eating In London

I take back everything I've ever said.

Hen of the woods at Holy Carrot

Back in June I wrote about my culinary adventures in London, grumbling loudly about the lack of seasoning in the food. “London, I shame thee for not dabbling in the fine art of salting,” said I, perhaps too hastily given that I’d only eaten in about five places. But the internet is nothing if not a cauldron of hot takes; so I thought - why not join in? Let me just generalize an entire metropolis based on a few restaurants.

In a surprise twist of fate (as opposed to a planned and predictable twist of fate), I’m already back in London - a mere six months after my last salt-challenged sojourn. Things are different this time around. The days are shorter, the air is colder,, and Christmas is in the air…and the water and the smoke and the puddles. I swear even the cockroaches are wearing decorative reindeer antlers. None of this has to do with what’s on my mind - I just want to set the scene for a Grinch-like melting of my heart.

Let’s not bury the lede: salt, like mulled wine, is on the London menu.

Every single meal on this London trip has been beautifully seasoned! I’ve had no notes! I take all my harsh words back, Britain. You DO season your food. You do!

I’m not sure what changed this time. Was it the influx of Xmas spirit? Or did I just stop going to garbage restaurants? I think it’s the latter. I’m just glad we’ve course corrected. Here’s a new and exciting list of London meals, replete with all my breathless observations.

Wagamama

I arrived in London Sunday night on the heels of just 90 minutes of sleep across 36 hours. This was not the time for adventurous dining. Instead, my partner Dominique and I sashayed across the street from our hotel to the nearby outpost of Wagamama, a pan-Asian chain that I became obsessed with when I first visited London in 2007. Age and snobbery has not worked well in Wagamama’s favor. I mean, Wagamama is FINE, but it’s not the transcendent fast-casual joyride of my youth. Still, I had a perfectly tasty Thai beef salad that was seasoned perfectly. I would never normally highlight this restaurant (especially FIRST), but I just wanted to note that London’s salt redemption kicked off here.

Borough Market

After a mediocre hotel breakfast on Monday, I went off on my first true adventure of the trip: a jaunt to Borough Market. For the uninitiated, Borough Market is a collection of food vendors and purveyors, nestled in the shadow of the Tower Bridge. I’m a sucker for markets; so I flung myself into the London Underground like a Plinko disc and bounced around (mainly in the labyrinthine Bond Street station) until I emerged to the sounds of Destiny’s Child on Tooley Street. Within minutes I entered an airy indoor-outdoor space, industrial girders running overhead while hungry zombies, myself included, ambling down below.

I immediately spotted a lady selling dates the size of nuclear submarines, but I resisted the urge to pounce on the first stall. Go deeper, I told myself. Go deeper.

It was sensory overload in the best way - a waft of garlicky mushrooms suddenly gave way to stinky cheese and then aromatic Iraqi cuisine. I was, in other words, overjoyed. My instinct told me to pull up a guide and read about the best spots, but I decided to be a little crazy and just aim for what appealed to me on sight.

My first stop was Furness Fish Grill, which had piles upon piles of oysters stacked in ice. That was cool and all, but what I was really there for was sea urchin, thanks to the giant sign that said “SEA URCHIN!” Unfortunately, everyone else had gotten the same idea because the sea urchin was sold out. No matter. I bought four oysters on the half shell and slurped them down. Fun fact: the good people of Furness served me the oysters on a plate shaped like an oyster, which made it all very meta. Nevertheless, these mollusks were big and juicy - some of the biggest I’d ever had. Some argue that it’s the small oysters that are the best. I don’t know where i land on this debate, but I can assure you these oysters were a good start to my Borough Market experience.

Next to Furness were several surly men tending to paella pans the size of helipads. The yellow rice, the mussels, the shrimp - they all looked intoxicating, but the line at “the paella guys,” as they’re known on the Internet(formally, they’re Bomba Paella), was entirely too long. I got nervous that the enormous paella pans were really just a made-for-Instagram photo op; so I moved on. Naturally, I still got my IG content.

I found a small queue near the edge of the market at a place called The Ginger Pig. A not-so-small sign declared that this was home of a “world famous sausage roll,” a claim I was too lazy to debunk. Unlike the paella, I was willing to get in this line. Firstly, it was shorter. Secondly, sausage rolls are more British, and I felt like it was worthwhile to wait for something super British whilst in Britain. And so that’s what I did, eventually purchasing a traditional sausage roll. There were other types of sausage rolls, but I felt I should go with the classic.

The thing came wrapped in a waxy paper, which, when unfurled, revealed streaks of errant butter that had escaped from the dough. Before the sausage roll could get close to my mouth, my hands were already greasy and my heart was requesting a statin.

Unsurprisingly, this pastry-wrapped sausage was excellent. The meat was bursting with flavor and oh so fatty - but GOOD fatty. And yes, it was seasoned. Very seasoned. It nearly crossed over into “salty” but stayed just short of the edge, which is always impressive. Nevertheless, I did find myself slurping down water the rest of the day; so who knows.

Point is, the meat was gloriously flavored, and let’s also not overlook the layers of flaky dough - crisp on the outside, soft and satisfying on the inside.

Unfortunately, this behemoth was too much of a good thing. I didn’t want to waste my precious sausage roll, but halfway through, I realized that if I went any further, I might not be able to sample anything else from the market. I also might’ve had a heart attack. I mournfully tossed the second half and pressed on.

After a brief layover at a stall named Spice Mountain (no relation to Space Mountain, but ugh I wish) and someplace named Le Marché du Quartier, I then wandered over to The Black Pig. By then, I had caved to my inherent nature and researched some of the Borough Market highlights. The pulled pork sandwich at The Black Pig, apparently was worth a try. I can’t say that after that sausage roll I was ready for pulled pork, but I rose to the challenge.

Glad I did. The sandwich, which comes on airy ciabatta and is topped with aioli and apple slaw, among other things, was sensational. I couldn’t help but eat the whole thing, much to the chagrin of the birds eyeing my crumbs. I instantly suspected that the sandwich, known on the menu as “The Best,” may have been one of the best I’d ever had. Needless to say, it was seasoned perfectly.

The real victory with the sandwich was the judicious use of pulled pork. I suspect that the same sandwich in America would have stacked the meat two inches high. But at The Black Pig, the pork feels almost sparing - like, enough to lend a smoky umami to the sandwich without the heaviness of a meat carnival (see: sausage roll). The balance was remarkable.

At that point I threw in the towel, despite wanting to try a dozen more places. A triumphant visit.

Polpo

At night, I visited a nearby pub where I enjoyed a cozy pint of cider before heading to a Soho restaurant named Polpo. This Italian shared-plates spot was cozy and tasty - nothing that will earn the attention of the Michelin guide, but a great neighborhood option. We enjoyed meatballs, grilled prawns, arancini and other satisfying bites. All was seasoned, all was right. A pumpkin ravioli was maybe the only misfire, but not terribly so.

The Breakfast Club

For breakfast on Tuesday, we shuffled over to The Breakfast Club, a European chain of cafés that admittedly has very American sensibilities. My expectations were modest, but it was nearby and easy. Surely had to be better than the hotel grub.

I ordered the avocado toast, and how surprised was I when it was not only delicious but better than many iterations I’ve had in Los Angeles? The key was the red-pepper sauce that coated the toast, offering up a healthy punch-in-the-face of garlic as well as seasoning (!) to the avocado. So good I went there two days in a row. And ordered the avo toast both times.

Scones!

I took a scone-making class. It was a blast. They turned out great. Future entry on NBD Fancy.

Chutney Mary

My parents informed me that I really should try Chutney Mary, an Indian restaurant in the Mayfair neighborhood. I had no idea what was in store for me, but when the establishment sent out a sternly worded email, perhaps from Chutney Mary herself, with various rules about dress code and attendance, I knew this was going to be a fancy meal. (My favorite decree: no children in the restaurant whatsoever except for weekend lunch, and even then they had to be at least age 6 or older).

The service at Chutney Mary, despite hostile missives, was actually quite warm, and the food was exemplary. Not a single dud. My cocktail, the Basil Smash, was perfection, and it signaled greatness to come. One dish after another elicited groans of joy from our table.

Drunken chicken tikka - sweet and sour and smokey with a strong wave of spiciness that didn’t outstay its welcome.

Corn ribs - kernels rendered crisp but still popping with sweet juices. The best I’ve had.

Baked venison samosas - thin phyllo-like dough stuffed with melt-in-your-mouth venison. This came with a raspberry chutney that I ATE AND ENJOYED (I hate raspberries).

A jewel of lamb curry, a vegetarian “silver crescent,” tandoori cauliflower, a classic butter chicken, and of course naan filled out the meal. I can’t imagine ever skipping this restaurant on future London visits.

It’s Bagels!

Wednesday was my birthday; so I decided to bump up my favorite weekly tradition: Bagel Thursday. I couldn’t help but wonder how London bagels stack up.

I can’t speak for all bagel establishments, but I’m delighted that the Soho outpost of this bagel chain was quite good! The schmear was perfectly proportioned to the bagel size - a feat many Los Angeles shops often fail to achieve.

The bagel itself was fascinating. It both had chew but also felt strangely “short.” I would never call it crumbly, but texturally, something was off. However, not off-putting. I would gladly go back to this schmear palace, and who knows, maybe I will by the time the week is out…

Holy Carrot

My friend Jenny and her husband Phil happened to be in London; so it seemed only appropriate that we gather for my birthday. We opted for vegan because, well, Jenny and Phil are vegans, but truthfully, Dom and I were ready for some vegetables in our life. Enter Holy Carrot.

Our group was absolutely chuffed with the assortment of dishes that hit the table. A stracciatella with persimmon and bitter leaves caused swooning en masse, but it was a sweet potato hummus served with heavenly garlic focaccia that proved to be my favorite starter.

For the mains, a celeriac katsu and a hen-of-the-woods mole made waves, but for me it was a plate of giant, roasted carrots that indeed had me saying “Holy carrot…” The only bummer was that we couldn’t be seated right away thanks to a loitering group of awful hipsters, and by the time we enjoyed our first bites, the kitchen had closed, which meant we couldn’t order seconds. I’m still mad.

Luckily, we’re going back tomorrow night; so all the wrongs will be righted.

Brasserie Max

This morning I attempted to visit a twee cafe named 26 Grains for breakfast, but I was told the queue was 30 minutes long. “You can take a walk around the neighborhood, and we’ll text you,” said the hostess with as little enthusiasm as you can imagine. So, that’s what I did. I walked around the neighborhood… and found a new place for breakfast: Brasserie Max. This place was perfectly good. It’s noteworthy solely because I ordered my first ever crumpet, and it was a DELIGHT. Why don’t we have a crumpet culture in the United States? They’re so good! Let’s do that.

Nando’s

I’d heard nothing but good things about this South African piri piri paradise, and finally, I was able to sample it. Nothing about my chicken thighs and crisps will ever linger in my brain, BUT for what it was - an easy flavor bomb of a meal - it succeeds! Glad to have Nando’s checked off my list, and can’t wait to dabble in more of that spicy piri piri sauce.

Oh, and once again, like every place on this list, well-seasoned!

The Broad Bean Bedouin

I saw there was a cookbook shop in Notting Hill, and since I had the morning free, I hopped on the tube to check it out. Little did I know that the establishment, Books for Cooks, was smack dab in the middle of Portobello Road Market (and just a block from Holy Carrot, for the record). I found myself wading through hundreds of people for what seemed like an eternity. It felt, at times, like the never ending market.

Eventually I came upon an area of food stalls. The vendors, unsurprisingly, were all very adamant that I try samples, but I refrained. I had just eaten breakfast - did I need another meal? But, for whatever reason, I decided to try a kofta sample at an Iraqi food stand called The Broad Bean Bedouin. It was incredible. Inevitably I wound up with a small container of offerings: herby rice topped with an obscene amount of dill; spinach and chickpeas; some sort of chicken stew; and of course, the kofta. It was all very good, but the kofta was the star. Garlicky, salty, oniony, herbaceous - the Platonic ideal for what we want in our Middle Eastern meatballs.

The downside: the vendor’s hygiene. She touched that raw meat a bit too much just before handling plates and flatware, but I couldn’t resist more kofta. If I wind up indisposed the rest of the afternoon, it’s my fault. Maybe worth it though? Fingers crossed…

Where are your favorite spots in London?