Category Archives: Fish
Chez Bruce
On a recent Sunday, as the sun cast a gentle glow over the lazy autumn day, a group of us walked to Chez Bruce, the Michelin-starred restaurant on Bellevue Road by London’s lush Wandsworth Common. Now that we’re domiciled in the Sarf London ‘hood, it was time to check out this south-western stalwart of the cuisine scene, established in 1995 by the restaurant’s namesake, Bruce Poole, and Nigel Platts- Martin.
Monsieur had been a little bemused by a call and e-mail to check that we were still on track for our reservation, presumably to assure restaurant management that we weren’t going to do a runner, leaving a coveted, yet empty table on their hands. They needn’t have worried; we’d been eager to visit Chez Bruce since moving into the general area at the end of the summer (and before). Besides, I’d already printed a sample menu and drooled lovinglyover the delectable descriptions of Chez Bruce creations. Once I’ve done the drooling, there’s no turning back.
The initial impression of the dining room is that of self-assurance: clean lines, a calming neutral shade on the walls and the careful placement of contemporary tableaux about the place (some quite diverse, but enough space between them to create more of a gallery feel than a clash of the artworks), all creating a quietly confident ambience. The floors and furniture are no-nonsense dark wood, the tables all shrouded in crisp white linens, the glassware sparkling in its simplicity, the overall look completely unpretentious, yet elegant and somehow moneyed at the same time. It takes quite a knack to pull off this genre of presentation – a bit like the no-make-up-make-up-look.
The menu arrived, positively bulging with seasonal produce, from butternut squash to game – it was fit for the season. Our waitress proffered first a round of spiced cheese crackers, then the bread basket. I chose a cube of focaccia that was so fresh it was like eating a little cloud of Italian bread.
The yellow circle of butter sat on a streaky slab of granite – creating a subtly artistic table statement with geometry and contrasting textures on the otherwise blank canvas. Shortly after carafes of red and white wine hit the table, our starters arrived. Monsieur’s came just before mine: a bright little red casserole dish of venison dotted with home-made spaetzle and my favourite-ever fungus – the girolle.
I have quite a thing for mushrooms, so my starter of choice was the wild mushroom and parmesan custard with fennel salad and truffled polenta chips.
The mushrooms hid in the savoury custard at the bottom of the dish, whilst dice of braised fennel and courgette sat atop the eggy mix. The custard was rich, so rich that it demanded the coolness of the vegetable ‘salad’ to balance it out. The earthy mushroom, pungent parmesan and soft aniseed of fennel complemented each other in both flavour and texture: strong to fresh, soft to crisp. The polenta chips were also a delight – creamy within their delicate, crisp, golden exterior. I thanked the angels for only sending me four, thus saving my already ample hips from further curvature. As for the quantity of the dish, it was well-gauged; I couldn’t have eaten another bite, but a mouthful less would have left me begging for more.
The game on the menu almost lured me in, but in the end it wass the skate that caught me. Light, with a zig-zag of deep orange butternut squash purée, fresh mussels echoing the amber hue, and sage leaves so crispy that they were a treat in their own right.
It was time for dessert. Confusion set in. Should I indulge in the warming poached pear or satisfy my inner cheeselover with a plate of England’s finest? I deferred to the wisdom of our waitress, Fran.
“The hot chocolate pudding’s a signature dish here,” she told me and, with her knowing look and nod of encouragement, three out of four of our party were persuaded in this gooey direction. It was really quite exquisite, with a refreshing scoop of praline parfait melting into marbled magnificence about the warm chocolate base, but once more I was impressed by how well the chefs had judged quantity. With such intense sweetness, no matter how well counterbalanced by its creamy partner, the chocolate pudding could easily have pushed one over the gastronomic edge, had it been even one dessertspoonful larger.
As it was, we could all still move after our Sunday afternoon feast at Chez Bruce, happily walking the long way home, with detours in the interest of regional familiarisation. The food had happily exceeded our (high) expectations, yet hadn’t swamped our digestive system to the point of regret. The staff were psychic – predicting exactly when we might need them and disappearing when we didn’t. At one point in conversation, I swear I didn’t see our wine glasses being filled, yet miraculously they had been. This was a disconcerting show of extraordinary stewardship for the woman who prides herself on her observational skills, prompting me to wonder if the Chez Bruce staff uniform might include invisibility cloaks. It’s not easy to deliver top service without making a patron feel smothered and at Chez Bruce they do it so effortlessly that they should could open a school for aspiring members of the hospitality fraternity, teaching this very art.
So, in summary – Chez Bruce has it all: a Michelin star, beautifully-appointed dining room, leafy outlook, fine food in elegant quantities and highly-practised staff. With such a delicious neighbour, we’re sure to be back for more.
Chez Bruce, 2 Bellevue Road, London, SW17 7EG
Telephone: 020 8672 0114
Website: http://www.chezbruce.co.uk/
Courvoisier Packs a Punch at our Autumn Party
Having spent the better part of this year looking for a house, finding one, moving and carrying out any number of related activities, Monsieur and I have finally been able to introduce our new home to family and friends. At last we have our own little garden and room for a barbecue, so Monsieur has been honing his barbie skills, and the number of people invited to be his guinea pigs has gradually risen to the point where we felt confident to have a small housewarming.
The kind folk at Courvoisier contributed to our evening by sending over everything necessary for a Courvoisier punch: bottles of cognac, lemonade, bitters, fruit, even the punch bowl and ladle. It made a delicious cocktail with which to welcome our guests and is a doddle to make:
250ml Courvoisier cognac
750ml lemonade
20 dashes of Angostura bitters
slices of fruit
combine all in punch bowl
(if you don’t have a punch bowl, use a large salad bowl and soup ladle instead)
The menu:
Anchoïade and a french onion dip served with crudités
Smoked salmon and dill cream pastry cups
Duck and Sauternes mini-toasts
Meats from M Moen & Sons, barbecued by Monsieur:
chipolata, merguez and Cumberland sausages
chicken breasts in a smoky paprika marinade from the Weber cookbook bible
spicy chicken and chorizo skewers
and some Epic creations:
vegetarian kebabs with peppers, onions, mushrooms and halloumi
field mushrooms stuffed with Boursin and sprinkled with grated Parmesan
prawn skewers in teriyaki sauce
courgette ribbons in teriyaki sauce
potato salad laced with wholegrain mustard
classic lemon cream linguine
Dessert:
red berries soaked in Courvoisier with warm fudge sauce and vanilla ice cream
We had a wonderful time with the friends who could make it. For all those who couldn’t, rest assured we’ll be doing it again. And again. And again and again and again.
Special thanks to Holly Saich and Courvoisier UK for so kindly helping our housewarming to get off to a tasty start. And a special mention for Monsieur, who just might become the next barbecue expert on the block. I’m really quite impressed by his fast-developing barbie skills. At the rate he stokes those flames, we just might have to rename him Lucifer.
This Little Piggy Went to Market – in La Rochelle
Doing the daily shop, French-style.
These aubergines are shinier than a militia man’s boots.
The lobster tank was looking a bit empty. I suspect there’d been a rush on lobster for cooling summer seafood platters.
This little piggy went to market, to hang out next to his brothers who are now a pair of delicious dried sausages. Oink oink.
Black-legged chickens with their heads ON, but running about no more.
Counting the chèvres…
Believe it or not, these rolls are called ‘hams’ of duck breast, and are stuffed with foie gras.
A trio of tapenades and other wicked treats to nibble with one’s apéro.
Legs of ham. With hoof or without?
Mimolette cheese (in case you were wondering). ‘Extra old’ says the label. You bet.
Extra old or prehistoric?
And to finish: Charentais melons in the Charente-Maritime.
The Salade Not-so-Nicoise
World over, there are many versions of the Salade Niçoise and much debate over what constitutes the correct serving of this classic dish. Purists insist that no cooked component should be added, apart from the tuna itself, and even then the tuna is either optional or tinned (not in MY kitchen). As you can see from the title of this post, I am not a purist. Here’s my version, with an Oriental twist:
N.B. Ingredients are given per person.
Use any sort of salad leaves (Delia apparently likes rocket, I like spinach, but any sort of mixed leaf will also do. Avoid iceberg – it’s too bland and a bit seventies for my version) – enough to amply cover a dinner plate.
Haricots verts/ green beans - cooked on a rolling boil for just 5 minutes so they retain their crunch and are still bright green. Dunk them in a bowl of cold water to keep their colour bright, then pop them in the oven with a couple of nobs of butter, a shake of salt and pepper and a sprinkling of parmesan cheese. Leave 10 minutes on 150C or until the butter and cheese have melted. Then cool and add the beans to the salad leaves.
1 boiled egg, just warm and halved or quartered. Don’t add hot eggs to the plate as they will wilt the leaves.
A small handful of cherry tomatoes – either whole or halved, toss over the salad.
2-3 salad onions, chopped and dropped liberally across the salad.
Once all the salad ingredients are on the plate, start with the tuna. It needs watching so as not to overcook and become dry.
1 tuna steak, marinated in teriyaki sauce. Cook just a few minutes on each side, so that the centre of the steak is still pink. Sprinkle with sesame seeds and place on top of the salad. Pour any remaining teriyaki sauce over the top as this will provide an automatic dressing.
Some argue that a proper Niçoise salad should have either tuna or anchovies but not both. I’m easy on this score. The only thing I would suggest is that if you decide to add anchovies, make it the fresh, marinated anchovies as these are less salty than the preserved kind and bring a truly zesty tang to the salad.
So, as you can see, this is far from a traditional Niçoise. I blame my Pacific-rim upbringing and a love of teriyaki sauce.
An EASY Mediterranean Weekend Lunch
When I was growing up I thought that twenty-four hours was the perfect length for a day. With age, this has changed: I’d now like thirty-six at least so that, among other things, I’d have more time to cook delicious things which take ages to prepare. As it is, I am your typical time-poor, full-time, professional woman with limited stamina and a pile of ironing that I’m never quite on top of. In spite of this, I’m ready meal-averse so at the end of most workdays, I cook. Sometimes I get so tired that by the end of it, I have no energy left to eat. Ironic, I know, but apparently quite common among my ilk.
Roll on the weekend – that blissful ideal of rest over two whole days, which seldom happens by the time housework, paperwork, special occasions and familial duties are taken into account. For just those times when hunger pangs hit but there’s little time to spare, I’ve got just the thing: a quick and easy lunch that can be thrown together in a jiffy.
Fill a bowl with cherry tomatoes cut in half, cubes of feta cheese, plenty of chopped parsley, a drizzle of olive oil and lemon juice to taste. Toss and spoon onto your plate. Leftovers can be added to another meal later. Put slices of mozzarella onto slices of beef tomato, season and heat in the oven until just melted (just a few minutes at 150C). Add a few of these to the plate and garnish each with a basil leaf. That’s the hard part. Now just add anything vaguely Mediterranean you might have to your lunch: slices of prosciutto or salami, a handful of olives, some lettuce leaves topped with emergency artichokes (from the jar that dwells in the pantry) – their preserving juice creates an immediate dressing so no vinaigrette-concocting required.
For the above example I grabbed some herby ciabatta from our local deli and warmed it through while I was heating the tomatoes. Other additions might include marinated anchovies, leftover grilled vegetables, a spoonful of couscous drizzled with lime juice and coriander, a few slices of grilled halloumi tossed in lemon juice and parsley, marinated peppers, some burrata (if you’re lucky enough to have it in the fridge) sprinkled with a handful of sliced green grapes.
One last point: if you have visitors and don’t want to spend too much time wearing your trusty oven gloves, just set out all of the Mediterranean foods that you have to hand, give them each a plate and tell them to help themselves, buffet-style. Couldn’t be easier! This is a seriously low-maintenance lunch that’s tasty, healthy and just as easy to make for a crowd as it is for one person.
If you have guests and want to show that some sort of effort was made in the feeding of them, you can even tailor this lunch to a specific Mediterranean country with a minimum of hassle. For instance, if you want to put the emphasis on things Italian, drinks might include San Pellegrino with a slice of lemon, prosecco, a glass of Pinot Grigio or a chilled Nastro Azzuro. Don’t fuss over dessert: just put out some fresh fruit or have a scoop of gelato. A really snazzy ice cream trick is to serve lemon gelato with a shot of limoncello poured over the top, but don’t plan on finishing the laundry afterwards! It works just as well with strawberry gelato and fragolino… divinISSimo! Finish with espresso. If you have a machine, all well and good, but if not, there are some really good instant espresso grounds on the market nowadays - trust me, I’m über- fussy about my coffee. Serve it with a bacio or two and get everyone to read out the love messages wrapped inside. Now, that’s what I call la dolce vita.
Buon appetito a tutti!
Les Fleurs du Thym restaurant, Les Sables d’Olonne
It’s hot, the heat has fried any sort of decision-making mechanism that Monsieur and I might once have possessed, and we’re hungry. The afternoon has been spent squeezed onto a beach with hundreds and thousands of French holidaymakers at Les Sables d’Olonne in the Bay of Biscay and we’d prefer not to spend the evening looking out at the scene of the crime, so we walk around to the port-side of the town, noses to the ground, sniffing out an eatery worthy of our time and money.
After much deliberation, we settle on a restaurant called Les Fleurs du Thym. It’s at once chic and modern, with a nostalgic air. We take a table, just before the throngs in the know arrive to fill the place.
‘He who eats well, sleeps well.’
I take the €26.00 menu, while Monsieur dives into the more pricey, €36.90 menu. Ouch. This had better be good. Our starters arrive. Mine is a seafood platter, with everything fresh from nearby waters. The oysters are served with a white wine vinegar and shallot dressing, which I spoon liberally across them before gulping down the still-breathing molluscs and proceeding to twiddle a little needle inside sea-snail shells to extract the slippery flesh. The langoustines are good, if messy, and the small tartine of smoked salmon tasty. Only the deep-fried calamari rings taste like something you could probably do better at home. They’re soggy, lifeless, non-descript.
I ask Monsieur about his Minestrone, which intrigued with its exotic inclusion of langoustines and foie gras.
“Taste it,” he commands, “dishwater is better.” I hope this isn’t said from experience and think he’s overreacting until a spoonful of soup slips down my throat. The liquid is embarrassingly dull, the vegetables screaming out for decent stock in which to soak. I don’t know how he manages to finish it, so bland it is – and on the more expensive menu!
We move onto our main courses, which appear swiftly. Mine is skate, delicate and soluble on the palate, with a lovely tang of buerre blanc swimming with baby capers. Roast fennel finishes the picture. On such a warm evening, this is an ideal dish – not too heavy.
Pity poor Monsieur across from me, though. He’s ordered the riz de veau. Offal of various shapes and forms hits his side of the table, most of it far from his taste. For the more expensive menu, I’m shocked: minestrone and offal are certainly cheap dishes to make, so the restaurant must be making a killing on the profit. I’ve ordered a seafood platter and delicious fish, yet my meal is a whole €10.00 cheaper. Surely, the management has mixed up the prices?
The dessert course is now under pressure to perform. My fingers cross and remain quite paralysed until a pair of beautiful sweet plates are set before us. Once more, my fortune holds and before me is a pile of goodness – a steaming Breton crêpe, crowned with a stewed whole pear, all sticky and soaking with a subtle, walnut butter sauce.
For once, my husband draws a lucky card: his thus-far frustrated palate will now be soothed by a perfect round of raspberry tart, fresh strawberries, berry-flavoured macarons, a berry-filled brandy snap basket and (wait, there’s more) a small preserving jar oozing with mint-flavoured chantilly, topped with a raspberry.
The moral of this dining story? The more expensive set menu doesn’t necessarily provide better value. Yes, we’d return to Les Fleurs du Thym, should we ever find ourselves in Les Sables d’Olonne again, but next time we’d stick to the cheaper menu. On this occasion we’d experienced that rare thing in restaurants, where paying less most definitely delivered more. Lesson learnt.
Les Sables d’Olonne
Monsieur and I recently found ourselves in the searing hot Vendée region of France. On arrival it was forty degrees in the shade and the land was baking. The beach beckoned, so off we set for the coast for a swim. As it was still holiday season, we knew it would be busy, but the scene that greeted us at Les Sables d’Olonne reminded me of a real-life Ken Done painting; there was barely a square of sand free upon which to park our bottoms.
Even from a distance, the beach could be seen to crawl with hot, pink, sweaty bodies.
A short walk away was the lively little port, filled with fishing boats and gin palaces, afternoon excursion boats heading out to sea, yachts and hungry folk scratching their heads as they tried to decide which of the myriad eateries should get their business.
Here’s a romantic little boat we spied setting off for an evening sail:
Across the harbour, it would seem that the Entente Cordiale is alive and well at this frozen storage facility for the maritime co-op:
Back on our side of the water a local waits patiently for his dinner to take the bait:
Les Sables is really quite a pretty town, with an armour-clad winged victory atop its war memorial, looking suitably businesslike, yet stylish.
In spite of the armadillo-style fleece, I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a sheep that this wolf is ogling. Dinner time?
It was for us, and now we were the ones scratching our heads as we trotted back and forth along the port-side promenade, trying to decide where to eat.
In summary: Les Sables d’Olonne is a lovely little seaside town, but don’t go there on a hot, sunny weekend, unless sardining yourself on the sand is your idea of fun. The water isn’t particularly clear, either (read into that what you will). Food-wise, you’ll be spoilt for choice, especially on the port-side, but be warned: you’ll need to be patient to find a good deal in high season – walk around and look at ALL the menus before making your choice. If you go on a weekday, however, the fish market by the port sells all sorts of seafood, sauces and even wine, all of which would make a great addition to any picnic, and at reasonable prices.
Still Life of Seafood, Venice, Italy
Isn’t this a delicious display of seafood? Ready to lick the screen? I am.
Bar Gelateria Del Molo, Porto Rotondo, Sardinia
Porto Rotondo is a place of fantasy: an artificial port and marina filled with luxe and super-boats. The one below is charming instead of the usual gin palace that’s the size of a house on water.
The sad thing is that these super-vessels only get used for a few weeks each summer. The rest of the time they sit idle, waiting for their pop star/ movie mogul/ politician/ Swiss banker owners to arrive for a bit of show-off time with their loaded friends; a sure case of ‘my boat’s bigger than your boat’. Some, like this one, are real whoppers.
Regardless, Porto Rotondo is a beautiful place to visit, an easy drive from the big Sardinian town of Olbia. Bougainvillaea blooms in all directions, the main pedestrian drag of Via del Molo is paved with fish and shark mosaics, crew in matching polo shirts bustle about preparing yachts for visitors and real Pucci maxi-dresses float casually by in the warm sea breeze. You get the picture. There’s another magnet to the lush sanctuary of Porto Rotondo, though: The Bar-Gelateria Del Molo.
Monsieur and I first found the Del Molo when we visited Sardinia three years ago. We loved their breakfasts so much that we decided to fly our new Lear jet over for lunch. (Okay, okay, I lie. We were there again on holiday and found ourselves in the area…No Lear jets at our disposal. Easyjet works perfectly well for us. )We just wanted something quick and light, but ended up going the whole hog with three courses each. Monsieur kicked off with prosciutto and cantaloupe, the melon perfectly ripe and oozing with juice, the ham deep with flavour. This was no supermarket-shelf ham, but slim cuts with little fat, ever so slightly thicker than parchment.
In the mood for cool, fresh, raw food, I chose the mozzarella and tomato salad. Sprinkled with oregano and fresh basil, I splashed some extra virgin olive oil onto the plate and tucked in. Admittedly, the tomatoes were a tad hard – a couple more days on the vine would have done them no harm, but the mozzarella was superb – rich dairy goodness with a consistency part-way to burrata, it stole the show.
Monsieur does enjoy a good club sandwich from time to time. Here’s how the Del Molo does it:
Once more, only the freshest ingredients were used, including the egg mayonnaise, salad and tender chunks of Sardinian chook. Even the bread was toasted to just the right shade of gold, but it was my main that will go down in the Epic book of all-time favourite dishes: tuna carpaccio with artichoke. I’m a carpaccio queen and I swear to the gods of all things culinary that this was the best tuna carpaccio I’ve ever had the pleasure to eat.
I think the trick was in lightly smoking the fish, for there was the vaguest hint of smokiness in the flavour. Sliced paper thin, dotted with fresh tomato salsa and preserved artichokes, all of it posing prettily in that same peppery extra virgin olive oil, each tiny mouthful contained a fishlover’s fireworks. At once fine yet unexpectedly fulsome, I ate slowly, allowing it all to seep into my cheeks so that I could hold the flavour for as long as possible. In the greatest gesture of generosity, I forked a bite’s worth onto Monsieur’s plate, keen to share the experience. It will be a long time before I forget such a wonderful culinary treat.
Our waiter was a proper character – tri-lingual at least, generally displaying his trio of international skills in the same sentence: “Monsieur, your order, per favore,” or “tutto a posto, Missus, oui? C’est bon?”. Cleverly, this covered all the bases. Now he suggested “un’ gelato, ice cream, glace?” It would have been rude not to, although at €10.00 per three scoop sundae, stabbed with a branded wafer and squirt of whipped cream, the cost was excessive in a country where you can buy decent gelato at a euro a scoop. Still, we bore it with a smile, as the lunch had been fantastic, we were looking out at a stunning marine-lover’s vista, and it seemed sad to leave without something sweet on the tongue. The Sicilian cassata ice cream was excellent. Don’t leave Porto Rotondo without trying it. Homemade glacé fruit makes such a difference. NB If you don’t want to fork out €10.00 for a sit-down sundae, you can always opt for the take-away option for about half that.
A clue to the excellence of our Porto Rotondo lunch lay just inside this doorway:
That’s where I spotted a shelf absolutely groaning with well-thumbed, sauce-flecked cook books.
Certainly, this was an expensive visit at around €90.00 for just the two of us, including diet cokes and bottled water but no wine or alcohol, yet for the memory, it was definitely worth it. As for the tuna carpaccio – it’s the stuff my dreams are made of.
Bar-Gelateria Del Molo - Walk all the way down the Via Del Molo until you reach the water. The Del Molo is tucked just around the corner on the right hand side. Local phone number: 0789 34338.
Click here to see my last post about the Del Molo, where I talk about breakfast.
Newtons, Abbeville Road
Monsieur and I have been househunting in earnest of late. That means Very Busy Saturdays. We set off straight after breakfast and spend most of the day with real estate agents, checking out kitchen appliances, the direction of the sun versus garden aspect, whether windows are sash or double-glazed, finding out if there’s a chain to consider. You get the picture. This is hungry work.
Recently we found ourselves between viewings, assessing the amenities of Abbeville Road in London’s Clapham South. There were places to eat and we had appetites to satisfy. We decided to chance our luck on an establishment called Newtons. They had a gastro-burger on the menu and Monsieur was in a Burger State of Mind.
We were greeted with professionalism and warmth, despite being walk-ins without reservation. The dining room was empty when we arrived, but was soon buzzing with locals of all ages – from toddlers to retirees. As we settled in, I surveyed the room and thought how sensible they were to top their white tablecloths with a layer of the paper cloth variety. These people know what they’re doing and it shows.
Monsieur dove into the á la carte menu, ordering a starter of squid and the Aberdeen burger - 8 oz of Scottish cow with bacon and melted cheese, a golden, lightly-toasted bun and stack of hand-cut chips. For the virtuous diner, there was an afterthought of salad on the plate, just in case all that carb-action arrived with a side plate of guilt. Monsieur demolished the lot, sin and virtue united.
I’d decided to try out the Newton’s set menu, which was not just an incredible bargain in these times of soaring prices, but also had dishes that I really wanted to try. I went for the two course option at £8.00. For that, I had vegetable tempura, which was absolutely divine, especially the warm battered chunks of creamy avocado. It was plated up with a small salad of shaved vegetables that could have been pictured in a guide for how to use a mandoline to best advantage. The dipping sauce was just what you’d expect with tempura – and blessedly not too salty, as is too often the case. Monsieur nabbed some of my tempura whilst I tried his squid. I don’t know where Newton’s fish supplier lives, but I’d like his number. This was a properly cooked, juicy song from the sea. “I can’t fault it.” said Monsieur. For us, at the starter stage of a meal, this statement often turns into a curse. I looked at him hard. He stared back at me. It was all in that one look. We were still recovering from a disaster of a food delivery experience the night before (that establishment’s menu has since been relegated to The Bin Department). In the interest of keeping our faith in purveyors of food, we hoped like mad that the Newton’s burger would live up to Monsieur’s expectation. By the grace of Zeus, it did.
My set menu main was a plate of penne, tossed with fresh salmon and courgette in a cream sauce. Sounds run-of-the-mill on the page, but it was better than most, thanks to the flavour pouring out of the herbs and slivers of red onion. I make this dish at home, so I can be quite a fuss-pot when it comes to other people’s versions. If Newtons ends up being in my new ‘hood, I’d probably save myself the toil over a hot hob and pop down to request a portion of theirs. Seriously, it’s that good.
We didn’t have time for dessert on this occasion, but if you add one to the set menu, it comes out at a total of £10.50 for three courses. The first time we saw the price printed on the page, I rubbed my eyes to check my contacts were working. It’s the best value for money in a London eatery that Monsieur and I have encountered in some time. We’ve since returned twice to break up the house-hunting and left both times whispering ”can’t fault it”. What’s more, the staff are friendly and we hope they’re getting used to our faces because they’re going to be seeing a lot more of us, for the vegetable tempura alone. In summary? Newtons of Abbeville Road: you rock.
Newtons
33 Abbeville Road, Clapham South, London SW4 9LA
Tel: 020 8673 0977
bookings@newtonsrestaurants.co.uk
http://www.newtonsrestaurants.co.uk/sign-up.php
Follow Newtons on Twitter: @newtonsclapham
