157 Commercial street, London E1 (020 7247 7392)
Meal for two, including wine and service, £80 - 110
Everybody has their limits, and mine is 45 minutes. Actually it's about 15 minutes, but as Barrafina, a tapas bar on Frith Street in London's Soho, is a new place from the Hart brothers (who run the established Spanish restaurant Fino), I thought I should give it a chance.
Barrafina certainly looks good: L-shaped marble bar, half-open kitchen, the fizz and hiss of the grill. And it smelt good, too. I really did want to try their made-to-order tortilla, and their seared prawns, and their hand-sliced jamon de Jabugo. The problem is they have a no-booking policy. That's fine, in a city which has a no-booking culture. But London doesn't. Eating out here is seriously bloody expensive and when we do so we want to know that, in exchange for our cash, we will get to eat at the place of our choice.
Still, we queued. We queued for Britain. If this had been New York somebody would have been working the line, explaining how long the wait might be, handing out free tasters of silky ham to remind you why you're bothering. They did offer us a drink, but the rest was silence. After 45 minutes we decided we had had enough. At which point we asked to pay for our two sherries and they attempted to charge us 12.5 per cent service for them. Which we refused to pay. The words 'bloody' and 'liberty' came to mind.
So Barrafina may be good. It may be brilliant. But in my universe nothing is 'an hour wait in a boring queue' brilliant. My companion, Simon, suggested we cross town to Hawksmoor, in Shoreditch, for a steak instead. He said it was an outrage that I hadn't been before. And having now eaten there I can see what he means.
Looking back at my reviews I see that, every few months, I have had a whinge about the lack in Britain of the sort of steak which is so readily available in the US. Usually I have declared the new place I am reviewing comes close.
Well, Hawksmoor is not just close, it's the real thing, down to the Manhattan-esque white wall and bare-brick interior. All their meat comes from the Ginger Pig, a former Observer Food Monthly producer of the year, and is served in proper sizes. The bone-in-sirloin weighs north of a pound, comes bone-in and costs £25.50, and if any of that appals you, you are hanging out with the wrong restaurant critic. It was, quite simply, the best steak I have ever eaten in this country. The meat had proper flavour, a serious char outside and pink to purple inside. The rib-eye was almost as good. Naturally, to go with this there were more of Heston Blumenthal's triple-cooked chips.
To start, there are long ribs from big Tamworth pigs, dressed in a pungent peppery glaze, or sweet sheets of grilled squid with fennel and dill. They do Caesar salads, and cured salmon with beetroot, and for dysfunctional types who have come here not wanting a steak (why would you do that?) there is whole sea bass or poussin. Or even, if you are accompanying a vegetarian (presumably to taunt them), an aubergine parmigiana.
A word on drinks: Hawksmoor is managed by Nick Strangeway, one of London's great barmen, and he will enthuse endlessly to you about the classic cocktails they have resurrected; think Georgia Mint Juleps, Black Forest Sazeracs and the austere-sounding Puritan. The moderately-priced wine list is equally inventive.
What can I tell you? I would have liked to try Barrafina, but I'm rather glad I ate at Hawksmoor instead.
