‘How on earth have I never been? This is nourishing for body and soul, and huge fun’
I should really hate Rochelle Canteen. It’s the sort of place whose misty-filtered photographs in weekend broadsheet supplements (oops) would normally bring my inner chippy northern cow bristling and spitting to the surface, which is why, I guess, I’ve never been until now. And it’s impossible to find. I wander around for some time, bothering bemused workmen involved in renovating the listed redbrick school (“a singular oasis of creativity”) in which the former bikeshed is situated. Even though it’s in the historic Boundary Estate, one of the earliest social housing schemes, and the menu features mince and tatties, you get the distinct sense it’s deliberately keeping out People Like You.
And here, on one of many outdoor tables, is owner Margot Henderson and influential chef husband Fergus (of St John fame), sitting in the watery sunshine, each wearing one of the straw hats that hang on the restaurant’s wall. This canteen may come on like a shack, but scratch the surface, and tables are Alvar Aalto, chairs Ercol. There are deckchairs. It’s studied-urban-bucolic enough to turn the most liberal-minded bolshie.
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