I recently returned from a few days in London, visiting my daughter, who was finishing a semester abroad. I arranged to stay at a wonderful flat in the Bermondsey area. I have been to London many times over the years, but cannot recall spending time in this area. I was surprised and charmed…beautiful old buildings restored and repurposed, small shops, and a number of very good restaurants, plus the fabulous Borough Market nearby and the Tate Modern and the National Theater and the Globe all within easy (but often wet) walking distance.
As I usually do, I arranged meals well in advance, based more on where I wanted to eat, than location and travel time. We ended up having to adjust our expectations, but those adjustments led to a few happy surprises, smaller, warm, neighborhood places with fantastic food. So, here are four places we enjoyed over those days.
The Garrison. A gastropub (their term, not mine) with an open kitchen and great food right on Bermondsey Street. I read about it before the trip, but had other plans for most of the meals, so just wandered in for lunch while waiting to get into the flat. I was lucky to be seated at a narrow communal table with high stools and a great view of the kitchen. Within thirty minutes of being seated, the place was totally full, with people gathering near the doorway in the hopes of getting a table. Tired, jet lagged and knowing we would be having dinner out as well, I ordered two appetizers—a delicious warm salad of aubergines with tomato confit, croutons and goat cheese, and a terrine of chicken and ham hock with a small salad of bitter greens. Both delicious. And a glass (or two) of a crisp white wine to address my jet lag. The service was efficient but friendly, and the room got louder and livelier as it filled up and I got through the second glass. I reluctantly turned down a third, but my jet lag was gone. At least for the moment.
Casse-Croute. A tiny French bistro just down the street from the Garrison. The waitstaff of two (who also tended bar and sliced the hams and other meats with an iconic red slicer), were French. Settling in, it did not take long to feel transported–as my daughter remarked, “as if we were in Paris.” We shared smoked salmon on a blini and duck rillettes, served in a small “pot” covered in a layer of duck fat. Then a pork roast and a small roast partridge (“perdrix” in French, I learned), both very good. All while enjoying a nice but too young Haute Cote de Nuits. We finished with a pear poached in red wine with shortbread and ice cream. And wonderfully, we were only a few doors away to the apartment and what I hoped—in vain as it turned out—would be a good night’s sleep.
108 Garage. The surprise of the trip. It was a dark, cold and very rainy evening. We had taken refuge in the Tate Modern, where we saw several incredible exhibits, and were lucky to get a taxi out to what purported to be Notting Hill. Even the driver was perplexed as we searched for the restaurant, wondering how we came to choose a restaurant so far from our home base. Set in a converted garage, with an open kitchen– similar to restaurants to be found in many cities these days–casual, funky, interesting spaces, with sophisticated food and wine. 108 Garage has a set menu—some amuses, three small appetizer courses, choice of two mains and two desserts. The wine list is carefully chosen and interesting. The waiter handed us the night’s menu—printed on a simple brown piece of paper—and I gulped. Great for me, I eat everything, but I was nervous about my daughter. What was to follow was at times mind-blowing. First, a bit of iberico ham and mushroom foam “pizzas” (on a small flatbread) with a slice of black truffle. A few slices of crusty bread with chicken liver mousse, followed by mackerel tartar with green apple and a horseradish cream were very good. Then sweetbread bulgogi, with fermented cabbage and green onion. My daughter hesitated for a moment, then tried it. One of the best dishes I can remember eating anywhere, anytime. Beautifully cooked, a perfectly balanced dish. Both of us cleaned our plates. The mains were both excellent, but after the bulgogi, I am not sure we did them justice. Then rocket sorbet (frozen arugula, basically), and dessert for her and cheese for me with the last glass of wine, a really delicious blaufrankisch from Austria, and a half bottle of a Loire sweet wine after. It was a truly memorable meal.
The next day, we had invited friends over for a “Sunday roast”, cooked at home with some fabulous ingredients bought at Borough Market, so after the amazing meal at 108 Garage and the dinner to come, we decided to cancel our lunch near Covent Garden. We were happy to just stick around the neighborhood.
Jose Pizarro. Down Bermondsey Street from the other two restaurants mentioned, and from his tapas bar Jose (which takes no reservations and is seemingly crowded from the moment it opens until closing time), we stopped by Jose Pizarro’s restaurant for lunch. Larger than Jose and offering full meals and a few tapas, we sat at the bar of the open kitchen and enjoyed a wonderful hour of tapas watching the chefs do their magic—four or five of them in a tiny space, all working together like a ballet. Croquetas, pan con tomate, Russian salad made with cauliflower, a bomba, boquerones, mushrooms with an egg and a couple of glasses of a lovely Spanish white. Fun and a perfect lunch.
The roast went well that evening, although not without its stresses, cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen. But nice to have friends in our “home”. Sadly, the next day, I cancelled a long-awaited return to the River Café, where I had first been many years ago. It was our last day and we just could not spend it getting there and back. But next time, I hope.
