These are actual main courses, not the almost mandatory-in-London ‘succession of small plates’. I’m improbably chuffed by this
I have long fought against the stars on this page. They’re such blunt instruments: how can you rate a dumpling canteen with the same reductive frame of reference as a temple to fine dining? But people like stars, apparently.
So I feel duty bound to explain that Sardine’s eight stars are not for elaborate technique or skill, or grandstanding with “theatre”, or luxury ingredients, but for sheer, grin-inducing enjoyment. The food isn’t intricate or clever-clever; there’s no Mastercheffy “presentation” – if there’s a pair of tweezers in the kitchen, you can knock me down with their saucisson sèche (sic). Where’s the star-chasing skill in sourcing the most beautifully snowy dollop of burrata, weeping cream and wobbly as scrambled egg, then smashing it on top of fine toasted sourdough and scattering it with the reddest, sweetest datterini tomatoes glugged with peppery olive oil? But we fall on it like pack animals, hooting with pleasure.
Related: The Barbary, London WC2: ‘It’s thrillingly alien: you’ve only the shakiest idea of what’s on offer’
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