Telephone: 020-7253 0723
Address: 4 Carthusian Street, London EC1
Rating: 16/20
"If I am going to roll off the vegetarian wagon," said Brother Comfrey, hoicking up his habit and settling comfortably into his chair, "I might as well do it properly - it's the oxtail for me."
Sister Angelica was not so certain in her decisions. "Oh, I don't know. I am torn. Ooh, the asparagus with soft boiled egg sounds good. Oooh, the little gem, tomato, grilled spring onion and herb salad, too. And what's bresaola?"
"Cured beef," said Brother Comfrey, who seems to eat so often at recently opened The Sutton Arms as to have his own table.
The Sutton Arms is the permanent base for our very own Kitchen Doctor, Rosie Sykes. As we all know, Rosie is a dab hand at introducing sunlight and joy into the kitchens of Guardian readers who don't quite possess her unbounded enthusiasm and imagination for the daily grind at the stove. But she is also a serious professional chef, in what little time her duties at the Guardian allow, and The Sutton Arms represents the haven for which she has been looking for some time.
With characteristic consideration, she has chosen a site situated a brisk 15-minute walk from our offices. Indeed, Brother Comfrey and Sister Angelica are both inmates of the Farringdon Road redoubt. Now, you may feel that reviewing the establishment of one of your own contributors smacks of favouritism. So it is - but I see nothing wrong with favouring dining rooms that deliver decent grub at decent prices, and I don't care who they are owned or run by. And The Sutton Arms serves up very, very decent food at easily digestible prices: there's no first course costing more than £5, no main course more than £12.50, no pudding more than £4.50.
In the event, the three of us ranged all over the menu, lining up grilled squid with romesco sauce (Sister A), sorrel omelette (Brother C) and nettle risotto (me); then guinea fowl with roast shallots, carrots and salad (Sister A), oxtail, olives and mash (Brother C), and onglet, roast beetroot, potato and horseradish cream (me); and, to finish, orange and almond cake (Brother C), and treacle tart and cream (Sister A and me.)
A number of things may strike you about those dishes. Vegetables obviously have an important part to play in Ms Sykes's culinary lexicon. And it's not often you see sorrel on any menu - or nettles, come to that. Sorrel can make its case in any company, but pair its herbal acidity with the wonderful rich freshness of proper, 22-carat eggs, and you get a celestial mouthful. Nettles do not make such an impassioned case for inclusion at the top table - although in Ireland I once ate a memorable nettle sauce with an even more memorable piece of salmon and a single potato of such majesty I dream about it still. The risotto was perfect in every respect except flavour, which was interesting, but not overwhelming. Sister A's squid was a model of sweet succulence, shaped like a hair curler, seared here and there, the fulsome, tomato-based sludge of the romesco bringing a bit of sunshine to the plate.
The oxtail was a marvel, devoid of any trace of fat, almost dry on the outside but falling away from the bone in tender, plump cylinders. Brother Comfrey hoovered up the lot like a lion who hadn't had a square meal in days. Sister Angelica dealt methodically and thoroughly with her guinea fowl, which, like the oxtail, showed the kitchen's skill at managing to combine ease of eating with robust flavours. I contented myself, in every sense of the word, with the onglet - or skirt, as I like to call it - the juices of which mingled with the carmine of the beetroot, their tastes rolling in and around each other, all sharpened with heat from the horseradish.
The plate arrangements were as plain as the room itself, of which I totally approve. The bar is downstairs, and that functions as a proper pub that serves bar food of a rather higher order than nachos or bangers and mash. The dining room is above it, and has just white walls and serious brown tables and chairs. There's no faffing, no fiddle-faddle, no folderol. Such clarity is handsome.
We drank wine - a couple of bottles of red: a very nice Nebbiolo d'Alba and a rather stylish Chilean cabernet sauvignon - a sherry each to go with pudding, and sundry other odds and sods, so the bill was rather more than it strictly needed to be - namely, £130.05, or £70 on food and the rest on frivolity. My excuse is that my colleagues needed strengthening before they returned to the fray.
Oh yes, the treacle tart. That was very acceptable, although it didn't quite have the teeth-wrenching quality on which I was brought up. But the cream that came with it, well, that was thin, pallid stuff, not at all the heavy, buttercup-yellow ambrosia that the dish needs. There, I've been beastly. I can't let even the divine Rosie think that my critical faculties ever sleep.
· Open Mon-Fri, lunch 12.30-2.30pm, dinner 6-10pm (bar food served all day, 12am-10pm). Cards All major credit cards (not Diner's Club). No wheelchair access to dining room.
