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Stephen Bull's Bar and Bistro
IN FASHION it's called diffusion, a way of turning reputation into revenue. It's com- merce for couturiers: Giorgio Armani dif- fused into Emporio; Gaultier into Junior; Valentino into Oliver. Now, it's happening with chefs: Anthony Worrall-Thompson's been doing it for a while; Marco Pierre White will do it soon; and Stephen Bull's just done it. Think of it as expansion reces- sionary-style. Stephen Bull's new bistro and bar in Farringdon is not, however, a watered down version of his restaurant in Marylebone, but something entirely other. I suppose you could nevertheless call the bistro Bull's Emporio to his restaurant's Armani: the style is there but you pay less for it; less costly cloth is cut for a different sort of customer.
I have to say I have never had much luck with Bull's culinary HO in Blandford Street. Others ululate with pleasure after dining there, but I have felt merely hesi- tantly satisfied. I've always wanted to like it more than I have. But if I've always felt coolly towards the restaurant, I have most definitely got the hots for the bistro. Enthusiasm inclines one towards generosi- ty, and my new-found luck at Bull's latest venture tempts me to return to his old one, especially since good things are spoken of his new chef there, Johnny Bentham.
But for the time being I'm happy to stick with the bistro. At first sight, it's modern and minimalistic to the point of terror. It has the sort of vestibule which reduces one to hopeless gaucheness: it's almost impossi- ble to work out where and how you should press — or is it pull? — the inner door so as to be allowed in. Once inside, it's still trendy but in an approachable Tchaik Chassay kind of a way, and, indeed, there is much of the 192 about this place. Its archi- tect, Robert Maxwell (no relation), has kept the small high-ceilinged room, like an upended shoebox, plain and empty, punctu- ated only by a modish Santa Fe motif: a fiery-coloured papier-mâché cactus here; a sun-yellow strip or burnt-earth-coloured square there. Minute black tables, so small you could think they were part of some Let's Play Shops set, are dotted around.
The menu is New Wave Mediterranean (where isn't nowadays?) but with touches Of unabashed unfashionableness. The par- fait of chicken livers with a slice of warm, sweet brioche, is about as old-fashioned as You can get, the starter equivalent of having creme caramel on the menu. True, it is brought up to the Eighties with the accom- panying marrow and apple chutney, and to the Nineties with the olive oil that is drib- bled over it, but fashion cannot satisfactori- ly appropriate this dish. And it was superb: buttery, fabulousy rich, its intensity of flavour matched by the miraculously smooth frothiness of texture. The plate of Spanish bits and pieces — circles of bitter- hot chorizo, serrano ham, pale Manchego, that salty-sharp cheese that goes so well with both, quince paste and shiny black Guadalquivir olives — is not much of a test of the chef, but I had to have it. Again, oil was dribbled over it all. I'd have preferred the oil on the table separately so that the bread (good, but on the stale side, I'm afraid) could be dunked in between mouth- fuls from the plate in front of me. To play with, I ordered an extra starter of 'home- made foccaccia' with grilled vegetables. This was delicious, but foccaccia it ain't. It was rather like a heavenly Italianate ver- sion of fried toast, an oil-limp piece of thick toast, with red onion, glossy red and yellow peppers, celery, courgette and aubergine, charred with black stripes from the grill. There is an art to grilling correctly: the veg- etables must be burnt enough to acquire that sweet smokiness, but not so much that they lose their almost fruity freshness. This is an art the chef has mastered.
The risotto, which can be ordered for a starter or main course, of smoked bacon, ribbons of cabbage and summer savory didn't quite pull off in taste what it
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promised with its fragrance; the deep sweet smell of the bacon hovered in a delicious cloud above the dish, mingling with the leafiness of the savory and the subtle steaminess of the broth. This was far from a failure, understand: it was good and reso- nant; it lacked only exquisiteness. My main course of cod deep fried in beer batter was almost emetically salty. This turned out to be because they'd made a mistake and it should have read, on the menu, 'deep fried salt cod'. But although the omission accounts for my surprise, it doesn't satisfac- torily explain the error of judgment in the dish. Everything else was perfect, you see: the batter was feathery and light, but sub- stantial enough to add to the play of flavours on the plate; the fish was cooked to dazzling bounciness; the sautéed pota- toes looked pale but were firm and crisp; and the tarragon and langoustine mayon- naise was an intriguing touch and almost explained the choice of the salty fish, as, when it was eaten with the fish, the salti- ness receded. Also, I'm not sure how salt cod can have the texture this fish had, as the salting preserves the flesh into fibrous chewiness which days' worth of rinsing can- not get rid of. I'm puzzled by the whole thing.
We tried three of the puddings, which wasn't strictly necessary, but it was a plea- surable way of overcoming indecision. The cold chocolate and whisky soufflé is so not my sort of thing that all I can do is pass on the rapture that was reported to me. Two little pots, one filled with lemon curd, the other with lime, came with some of the best biscuits I've ever had: ladies finger-shape, but rich like crumble-mixture and with a whisper of chewy icing glaze. These were bettered only by the shortbread that accompanied the strawberries. Not too sweet, as buttery as one could dream of, this was shortbread of heroic stature. I implore Stephen Bull and his chef Steve Carter (a partnership that works tri- umphantly well) to keep it on the menu well after the strawberries have finished. It should have a permanent place.
We drank Bonny Doone's Big House Red from Santa Cruz, a juicy red for £14.50, a glass of champagne and two glass- es of Quady's Elysium Black Muscat, dark, syrupy and aromatic. The bill came, with- out tip, to £65, and that was enough food for three normal people. But don't let my extravagance put you off: there's no mini- mum amount you have to order, so you can come for lunch for a glass of beer or wine and a rummage through the list of starters at an average price of £4.65. And if you must, you can indeed treat the place as a bar and just drink.
Stephen Bull's Bar and Bistro, 71 St John Street, London EC1; tel 071 490 1750. Stephen Bull's Restaurant, 5-7 Blandford Street, London Wl; tel 071 486 9696.
Nigella Lawson
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