RESTAURANTS
DEBORAH ROSS
Iwant to try a Russian restaurant in Clerkenwell called Potemkin. I just fancy it, I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s simply because it isn’t one of the usual ethnicities and neither is it the new British cooking thing — Canteen, Roast, National Dining Rooms, etc. which is now taking over London so quickly that I sometimes find myself yearning for The Golden Egg, which never tried to reinvent oxtail but did do a mean gammon with pineapple ring. I ask my old friend Clive if he would like to come along. He says fine, ‘although I do hope there won’t be a pogrom’. I say if there is a pogrom, let’s hope it comes after we have eaten but before the bill arrives, because if there has to be a pogrom then this, surely, has to be the best time for one. Neither of us can recall the last time we went out for a Russian meal, although we can both recall Russian salad that used to come in a tin from Heinz, but I don’t think we need to go there. Heinz Russian salad was one of those things that managed to insult both Russians and salads everywhere. It was unique in that way.
When we arrive at the appointed time, Potemkin isn’t quite what either of us expected. It has a very sleek, modern exterior and, on the ground level, what appears to be an fiber-hip designer bar. I don’t know why I didn’t expect this. Because I assume everything Russian will be dark and heavy and old and dusty and lumpen, and that’s just the women? I guess so. The restaurant proper is in the basement, though, and it is rather nice. Curious, but rather nice. Although small (only 34 covers) and the oddest shape ever — it’s like being in a hot, subterranean, bisected triangle — it’s quite rich without being overly or ostentatiously so: burgundy banquettes, burgundy walls; gilt-edged alcoves housing brightly coloured lacquerware vases. The owners are Russian, the chef is Russian and all the staff are Russian, so it’s the real thing rather than a nasty themed job. Potemkin was, as I understand it, a field marshal and Catherine the Great’s lover on the days when it wasn’t a horse, which I believe was every other Tuesday and some Friday afternoons.
The service is, initially, brisk. In fact, it is too brisk. It’s sit down, here is the menu, are you ready to order? I’d planned to have an aperitif. I’d planned to have one of their award-winning Bloody Marys, or one of their numerous flavoured vodkas, but everything’s moving too quickly. I later understand why, when a large party of around 20 men in suits arrive and take up most of the restaurant. They appear to be bankers or something and every so often one of them stands up, calls for hush — which means we all have to go quiet — and then gives a little speech about how well they have done lately and how great they all are generally. This makes me want to clink my own glass, call for hush and say, ‘I’ve got nothing to say, but still. See how annoying this is?’ I’m guessing the restaurant wants to get Clive and me up and running before they are otherwise too occupied with this table. This is fair enough, but I hate that table all the same. I am generally great too, by the way. Ask anybody.
So, brisk service, but also engaged and interested. Our own waitress, who is not heavy, dark, dusty or lumpen, and is even possibly beautiful, with lovely blonde hair and fabulous cheekbones, is keenly informative. When we order a bottle of red Georgian wine (Tamada Saperavi, £16) she says, ‘Ah, Stalin’s favourite.’ Clive says this can’t be the easiest way to sell something. Clive says he can’t imagine going to a German restaurant and being told, ‘Ah, Hitler’s favourite.’ But our waitress has enough charm to get away with it, plus she is splendidly helpful. Clive is allergic to nuts. Very, very allergic. If he eats anything even vaguely nutty he has to jab himself and get to a hospital within 30 minutes or he has had it. But the waitress takes all his crossexaminations well and is happy to keep returning to the kitchen to make further inquiries. I think that if Clive saw a cashew coming at him from one direction and a Cossack from the other, there is no saying which way he would go.
Anyway, on to the food. First, the bread. There is a charge for the bread (75p), which is a little bit naughty, but it is good and interesting bread. There’s an excellent, dense, sour rye bread and one with raisins in that is almost cake. Next, the menu, which not only goes way beyond borscht and potatoes but is eccentrically conversational in tone. For example, the starter of Selyodchka (cured herring with marinated onions, new potatoes and dill) is described as ‘a dish Russians die for’. Really? Better have it then. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d die for it, but it’s jolly good all the same. The herring is sweetly subtle, the onions are a perfect, zingy accompaniment and the potatoes are beautifully warm and generously bathed in fresh dill. Clive has the chicken roulet, a chicken fillet rolled around plain and tomato omelettes and served with a beetroot and horseradish sauce. He says it all ‘works surprisingly well’. Most starters come in at £4 to £5, which we think very good value.
My main of Sashlyk Po-Potemkinsky (£16) is chicken marinated for 24 hours in wine and spices, then pan-fried and served with peppers and a tomato and coriander sauce. The chicken is excellent, tender and aromatic, but I could do without the peppers, which are just, well, slabs of pepper laid around the plate. And pepper doesn’t have a lot to recommend it at the best of times. Possibly it has more to recommend it than Russian salad but, as we know, that really isn’t saying a lot. Clive, though, is perfectly content with his duck breasts served with cranberry jelly and red cabbage (£13.50). ‘Very moist, very succulent,’ he says, ‘and very nut-free.’ For pudding we both have the vodka-doused fresh fruit salad, which is refreshing and just the ticket.
Potemkin is not only small but also very busy. Booking is essential: we saw quite a few people being turned away. Potemkin is an interesting diversion (even without pogroms and heavy-duty nut incidents) in a cool space with charming staff and, while the portions can be a little on the small side, not overpriced at all. The wine, I should add, was lovely. I wouldn’t trust Stalin with a lot, but I would with a wine list.
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