Whenever people complain that I do not review enough restaurants outside
London, I explain very patiently that 90 per cent of the restaurants that
open in England and Wales annually open in London (which is quite a feat for
the ones in Wales), and that as I generally do about 12 out-of-towners a
year, more than a quarter of my annual 46, I am actually doing far too many
already, and really it is restaurant-goers in the capital who are being
cheated. So there.
If they ask where I got the 90 per cent figure from I cough loudly and change
the subject. But if they persist, I tell them, now look here, first of all I
don’t come round your place telling you that you should do more accounting
or hairdressing or policing, or whatever the hell you do, out of London, do
I? You do it wherever the hell you live, and that’s an end to it. And second
of all, I do not have to bother schlepping out into the wilderness every
week looking for restaurants, because if anywhere half-decent opens up in
the provinces, then eventually it is going to realise the error of its ways
and move to London.
Which is exactly what has happened with Hibiscus, former two-star centrepiece
of the foodie scene in a place called Ludlow, now happily nestled in
Mayfair, as anywhere charging £49.50 for lunch damn well ought to be. And
now it’s here I can review it. And everyone’s happy.
Now, I don’t know much about Ludlow, and it does not know much about me. All I
do know is that it is a place with a lot of good restaurants. A bit like
London, except smaller and without my house in it. And by “a lot”, they
probably mean “three”. That’s what they usually mean. Except in Birmingham,
where they mean “two”. But I am guessing Ludlow is smaller than Birmingham,
seeing as it does not have a football team that I have heard of. Unless
Hamilton Academicals are from there, which I doubt.
I am being disingenuous. I know perfectly well that Ludlow is in Shropshire.
But that does not help, because I do not know where Shropshire is. It sounds
sort of middly. And I’m guessing it’s pretty rural, because of that poem
about the lad from there. I am guessing it is somewhere near Leicester.
I once tried to book a table at the old Hibiscus, and they laughed. They told
me I would have to wait three months. I asked if they thought I would have
more luck at any of the other restaurants in Ludlow and they said they
thought not.
“Is that because Rick Stein is doing so much telly?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” they said. “He’s in Padstow.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that different?”
“It is indeed. We are in Shropshire.”
“And that’s nowhere near Cornwall?”
“No.”
And the thing was I had to be in Cornwall that weekend, so I made my apologies
and hung up. And then I tried Rick Stein’s place, but that was full, too. So
I ate before I left.
When I phoned Hibiscus this time I got in, no trouble. But that was because I
phoned in the week before they opened and booked for about the third
feasible day, when nobody had yet been in except the chef’s family, the
builders and those two or three over-eager critics who will review a place
before they’ve put the roof on, on the back of a hard-hat visit and a
sandwich on the spot where they plan to put the kitchen.
And it was all, already, very good indeed. The room has carpet – so rare – and
thus has the loveliest acoustics: a dull murmur of chat in the background
and no problem hearing your friends saying how yummy everything is. Which is
just as well, because by the time you have earned enough money to afford
this place, you will be old and deaf. The room is otherwise lovely, too:
pale wood panelling, slate, easy lighting, the gentle, rolling movement of
serious staff.
It feels like it’s been here for ever, it’s just that confident, relaxed and
warm. There was a pre-starter of hibiscus cordial and soda with a smoked
olive oil float. The smoked olive oil alone was worth the trip (to Mayfair,
that is; Leicester, or Ludlow or wherever, would have been pushing it) – a
flavour at once familiar and novel (like the Fat Duck’s sardines-on-toast
ice-cream or El Bulli’s paella-flavoured Rice Krispies).
We wondered, my friend Xander and I, how you smoke oil. You can’t hang it over
a fire, because it would keep sliding off the hook. Xander thought maybe
they smoke the olives and then press them, which I thought a cunning wheeze.
But apparently they don’t. They just leave the oil in a smoky place for
months and months. Didn’t sound that tricky. I wondered if my mum’s car
would do.
Next up, deep-fried sheep’s knackers. Aye, they’re that posh up Ludlow way.
They’re called “croquettes of lambs sweetmeats” on the menu. But that’s
balls to you. Two bollocks are served – as in nature – coated in the most
perfectly adhering, light, golden crumb, laterally sliced and stacked ever
so prettily. The smooth pink facet of the open side a jewel in its tawny
pouch. The delicate, unoffally flavour was beautifully matched by a tartare
of chopped native oysters and sweetcorn in a dainty quenelle, and a spot of
watercress.
Langoustine ravioli were equally beautifully made, but seemed almost punchy by
comparison – there was a foam, and stewed sweet onion with apple and
cinnamon. I wasn’t ready yet for cinnamon. Too early in the meal. I’m not,
to be honest, much of a one for sweet things with shellfish, either. Sorry.
Xander wanted the suckling pig in two stages, roasted then served as a sausage
roll, and who wouldn’t? As guest he took primacy (a supplement of £7.50 on
the langoustines and £12.50 on the pig means you’re already 50p short of £70
a head before booze), and was rewarded with beautiful pink pig on the bone,
dressed with a mussel cream that nicely underscored the depth and fragrance
of the meat.
I had rose veal which had come all the way from Shropshire. That’ll learn it.
You know, it was chewy. It just was. Very pink, very sweet, but chewy. I
roast up a rack of rose veal from the Ginger Pig at home quite often (though
usually in the spring) and stand it for half an hour and it isn’t chewy. And
this was. But I’m sure it usually isn’t. Came with “old variety root
vegetables” which were a roistering autumnal accompaniment, really worth the
effort, and a parsley root and cumin purée.
I had asked for a sausage roll as well as Xander (I’m buggered if I’ll sit
there making small talk over an empty setting while a pal chomps pie), and
it was the highlight of my meal. Rich and herby in unbelievably short,
buttery pastry with a little truffle vinaigrette and a dash of the smoked
oil again on a tiny tangle of leaves, it was the most perfectly focused
umami-whack I’ve had in ages and the perfect foil to a formidable, almost
calvadossy Barbaresco (a £175 bottle which the young English sommelier had
rather punchily talked us up to on the back of a routine enquiry about a
£118 Brunello).
For pudding I had a brilliant cinnamon millefeuille (now was the moment for
cinnamon) served on its side and basted with dried fig ice-cream, while
Xander had something with chickpeas (crazy place: apples for the starter,
hummus for pud).
Three other diners paused, en sortant, to tell me I should have had the
legendary chocolate tart. What is it with you people and advice? I’ll do the
advising, thanks very much, and you do the nodding and smiling. Capiche?
Now, isn’t it time you were catching the train back to Leicester?
Hibiscus
29 Maddox Street, London W1 (020-7629 2999)
Meat/fish: 8
Cooking: 8
Other: 8
Score: 8
Water: no problem with tap.
Price: expensive, as above.
Bully’s
44 Cardiff Rd, Llandaff, Cardiff (029-2056 1996)
Steve West writes: “WHY NOT COME TO MERRY WALES????? Bully’s is owned
and run by Paul Bullimore (a local legend, drinks 2 bottles of scotch a day
– he is over 70 and goes to local market 6am to buy fresh produce! Ask him
about the time he went on the beer in Washington with the head of the CIA!)
and his son. French chef. They never advertise – all word of mouth gets the
doors open. I love it.”
E-mail feedme@thetimes.co.uk if you
know somewhere a long way away and I’ll see if I can’t get down there soon
Book
a table at Hibiscus
I was born in cardiff, and lived in Llandaff.. there was like NOWHERE that served anything half decent to eat, except pub food. That was some years ago, mind. Have my doubts that anyone who imbibes 2 bottles of Scotch a day will be in a fit state to do anything except lie down... I will look him over ( or up) next time in the " land of my fathers"
Steve Nicholas, Sydney, NSW
"(like the Fat Duck’s sardines-on-toast ice-cream or El Bulli’s paella-flavoured Rice Krispies)."
Isn't that a heavy handed method of establishing pedigree? It's like starting a review for a Maserati with 'Drives like a Maybach... a Rolls maybe'. Or introducing Hitler at a dinner party with 'Remeber Stalin?'
Hamza K, Edinburgh,