M y mother and my father and my partner and I
go to the Almeida Theatre in Islington to see There Came A Gypsy Rising (excellent I do love a rising gypsy!) and then it’s over the road to Ottolenghi on Upper Street. Ottolenghi had been my mother’s suggestion. She’d eaten here recently and thought it would be worth writing about. My partner, though, says he is only up for it if ‘you’re not rude about me in print’. Naturally, I promise, swear and give my word. He is reassured which, I guess, only goes to show how little he actually knows about me after all these years. Then again, he has always been quite slow. (Truthfully, he’s a very nice man and I love him dearly. A bit slow, but you can’t have everything.) Anyway, Ottolenghi, which also has branches in Notting Hill and Kensington, operates by day as a café and deli and has an entrance area that doubles as a bakery. The display is sublime: heaped, divine-looking artisan breads; rich dark brownies; sparkling colourful tarts; speckled tea-cakes; those vast swirling meringues that always remind me of Raine Spencer’s hair-do. (Do you think she takes one into the hair salon, as others might a magazine cutting?) It’s the sort of display which makes you want to dive in, have a good thrash about — head first, mouth open — and never come up again. Strangely, I rarely feel such temptation when passing Greggs.
To the restaurant beyond, which is stunning, if you like Arctic white, which I do. It has long, chunky, Arctic-white communal tables and chic Arctic-white Panton chairs running down a long, thin, Arctic-white room. The effect is like being within a dazzling shoebox, as well as very, very Arctic. I love it. So pure, so fresh, so clean, so unlike home. Someone once tried to be nice by saying they liked our house because ‘it looks as if students live in it’. I cried. My partner thinks that if I were actually to put things away instead of shifting piles of clutter from here to over there and back again, it would make a big difference. But, hey, what does he know, being quite slow?
We’ve booked and are shown to our bit of the long, Arctic table with its nicely flickering candles. We’re told that the restaurant works like this: you order your starters ‘from the counter’, which is cold, deli food, and then you back it up with a main ‘from the kitchen’, which is a hot dish. We’re given menus — white slips of A4 paper, as the menu changes daily — and are then told that of the nine ‘from the counter’ dishes usually available, only four are still on. ‘Why is that?’ I ask. ‘Because,’ I’m told, ‘we’ve been very busy. We’ve already had two sittings tonight.’ I am perplexed by this answer. Surely any successful restaurant worth its salt would expect and be prepared for two sittings a night? I don’t get it but, alas, by the time I’ve worked out that I haven’t got it the person who seated us is gone. I wonder if this ‘being slow’ business is catching.
That, though, is the only disappointment of the night. Everything else is lovely; just lovely. We are offered a variety of top-notch breads: dark, malty ones; lighter, almost cake-like ones. Our waitress for the night, Karolina, is a happy, friendly, pretty Pole who pleases my father by laughing at his jokes. Although Ottolenghi sounds Italianish the owners are, I believe, Israeli, and the food here is sort of Mediterranean, yet with Middle Eastern and Asian twists. Interesting.
I start with the pan-fried tuna marinated in coriander and soy served with a ginger and coriander wasabi yogurt sauce (£7) . It is a joy. It may even be pure joy. The tuna is dizzyingly fresh and tender. It’s also as sweet as I imagine a thin slice of a baby’s bottom might be. The wasabi sauce is served separately, as a dip, and manages to be deliciously fiery while whispering quietly of coriander. The tuna married with the dip is quite wonderful. My parents both have the roast beef fillet served with red pepper and harissa sauce (£7.50). Just the sight of the beef fills my mouth with a salivating longing. It is perfectly moist and perfectly pink. (Why can’t I ever achieve that with beef at home? I so try, but always either overcook it or it’s raw in the middle. Any advice gratefully received.) My partner has the beetroot with endive, pear, gorgonzola, chives and rocket (£6). The beetroot is yellow, sweet yet earthy and fantastic with the cheese. (The menu, by the way, is always dictated by that day’s produce from the market.) All our main courses — baked halibut served on chargrilled broccoli; crispy pork belly with a quince relish; grilled scallops with a crab and saffron brandade — are beautifully presented and expertly executed. My halibut feels lush and opulent in the mouth and the salsa verde is like pesto gone all silky. The pork belly is as crisp as it promised it would be. ‘Brandade’ should not be confused with ‘Band-Aid’, as the first is a sort of mash and the second isn’t. Each ‘from the kitchen’ dish costs around £9, which is good value but not tremendous value, as all dishes are starter-sized and the recommendation is that you order three to create a full dinner.
Lastly, desert. My father goes for a fruit galette heaped with zingy redcurrants, my partner picks the apple, vanilla and sultana cake (a huge wodge in this instance, by the way) while I order the baked cheesecake with caramelised macadamias (all at £5.50). All of them are dreamy, totally dreamy. I do like a place that takes puddings seriously, and this one so does.
So, Ottolenghi then? A terrific, original place, I think, offering beautiful ingredients beautifully cooked on site. And all in a lovely space of the kind I might live in one day, when I’ve learned to put things away. Some people say my partner has a lot more to put up with from me than I do from him, but what do I say? You’re nearly as daft as he is. Obviously.
Ottolenghi is at 287 Upper Street, London N1; 63 Ledbury Road, London W11; 1 Holland Street, London W8; www.ottolenghi.co.uk.
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