‘We’re made to perch at a not-very-congenial bar rather than the restaurant proper and left very much to our own devices. As Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman: mistake, big mistake’
James Cochran is a great chef. Really: quite, quite remarkable. I’m experiencing actual joy at his hands, at the ministrations of his pork shoulder, braised until it yields to the touch of a fork, but with skin expertly blasted into almost-cracknel so the whole thing comes together like a heavenly, pig-based creme brulee. On the side, there are the sweetest inner leaves of brussels sprouts with pink grapefruit and pine nuts, a delicately truffled cream marrying the lot. Or his salmon, cured in treacle for just a touch of shady sweetness cut with mustard, plus all sorts of textural fun coming from shaved radish, weeny dice of apple, a limpid jelly of more apple and whisky, and whipped cod’s roe topped with rye crumbs. Each mouthful is different, each delivers little shivers of pleasure.
Then there’s his fried chicken, the kind of thing to have the Colonel grave-whirling like a jealous, frock-coated dervish. Its jerk-spiced crispness, its buttermilk-brined tenderness, the sting of scotch bonnet peppers tamed into some kind of fiery-mellow preserve, the popcorny crunch of toasted maize. I’m writing this from the confines of a Bavarian fasting spa and the recollection of that chicken is bringing me close to tears.
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