Why can't razor clams appear more regularly on menus? They are the essence of cooked shellfish, the distillation of marine munchability. True, they can be a bit rude to look at, and, if not cooked very carefully, can feel as if you've put a peculiarly dense rubbery toy in your mouth. When treated with care, however, they have an unmatched sweetness and a forceful tenderness. And when that sweetness is matched against garlic soya sauce, well, then you know what a perfect marriage is all about.
Pimlott and I were lunching at Mandarin Kitchen when we came across these razor clams with garlic soya sauce. We rejoiced. Mandarin Kitchen won the Asian section of the Moët et Chandon London Restaurant Awards last week, for which I was a judge. So why bother with a review, you may ask - surely, if you helped vote it a winner, you must have eaten there before and never thought to mention it to us. All true. I have eaten there several times, and thought highly of it, but I thought it a good idea to remind myself just why.
Mandarin Kitchen certainly did not get the award for its decor, which is far removed from the high-concept, designer dream world that is now part of the eating experience. It would be kind to call the place utilitarian in its approach to visual display, though more accurate to say that it resembles a generously proportioned, white-painted tube tunnel with windows. But looks aren't everything. Indeed, they may not be anything. Mandarin Kitchen rates as one of the more difficult restaurants in west London in which to find a seat come dinner time, partly because discerning and curious London chefs love to eat there.
Why? In a word, fish. It isn't just the best Chinese fish restaurant in town. It's possibly the best fish restaurant of any national denomination. It is said to sell more lobster than any other place in London, but we weren't there for that. We wanted the marine exotica that you rarely see on other menus: the aforementioned clams, roast baby squid with chilli and garlic, sea cucumber pot, monkfish in ginger sauce and, by way of contrast, spicy beef shin from a section on the menu delightfully named "cold toss". In fact, the thought of the sea cucumber really set Pimlott slavering, but we'll come to that.
I've already extolled the virtues of the clams, and similar accuracy in cooking technique meant that another potentially dentally challenging shellfish, squid, was as resistant to the tooth as a rose petal. A toothless old crone could have eaten these squid and, equally remarkable, tasted them. Let's face it, squid isn't one of Dame Nature's heavy hitters. Texture, great; taste, the weak link - unless it's been squidding about until a few hours before hitting the pan. These, like all the fish at Mandarin Kitchen, obviously had been, so held their own with the garlic and chilli.
I set about demolishing the honorary meat dish virtually singlehanded - Pimlott, wisely as it turned out, was reserving his fire for the sea cucumber pot - and, given the generous nature of the portion, eating the lot was quite an undertaking. Nevertheless, I managed it. Shin of beef is another ingredient that we see far too little of on contemporary menus. The European way is to braise it for hours and hours until the meat turns gently and silkily fibrous. The Chinese way is to braise it with spices - notably, in this case, star anise - for not nearly so long, let it cool, slice it thinly and then relish the interplay between the dense meat, and the cores of gelatine and connective tissue running through it.
The monkfish was anonymous after these kitchen curiosities, partly because the ginger was not its usual cheerful, challenging self. It was unusually self-effacing, and the dish suffered as a result. But one dish's disappointment is another's opportunity, and in came the sea cucumber pot. You may not be familiar with sea cucumber. You are not alone in this. They figure prominently in photographs of coral reefs in National Geographic, but rather less frequently on fishmongers' slabs. They aren't vegetables at all, but curious creatures, kind of marine cleaners, hoovering up all the stuff that other denizens of the deep won't touch. What came out of the braising pot and into our bowls were short sections of what appeared to be draught excluder of almost supernatural slipperiness, and was a severe test of chopstick technique. As for flavour, I would say that sea cucumber rates slightly lower than phlegm, the texture of which it closely resembles. But then, that's the point. The braising medium, stock and shitake mushrooms contributed the flavour, the sea cucumber variations on jelly, which is so appreciated by the Chinese and so unrecognised by most of the rest of us.
I withdrew from the contest after a couple of exploratory mouthfuls, but Pimlott ploughed his way through the lot, cooing cheerfully as he went. It was a majestic performance, helped by a bottle of Pinot Grigio from a rather well-appointed wine list. It worked exceptionally well, and made but a modest contribution to our bill of £70.40. And £70.40 seems remarkably little to pay for superlative fish and shellfish that is handled with supreme assurance, not to mention the rare opportunity to come to grips with a sea cucumber. Although, on reflection, "grips" may not be quite the right word
