Reservations versus no reservations? Whether you’re pro or con boils down to this: over 30, “no food on Earth is worth waiting in line for unless I’m staring starvation in the face”; under 30, “I might get lucky in the queue.” There are no prizes for guessing which camp I’m in as I trudge disconsolately towards London’s hottest new opening, the aptly-named Smoking Goat. We take one look at the seething mass of skinny-jeaned humanity jostling for a handful of seats in this loud, dark dive bar and think, bugger this for a lark. Then I remember something: another new place a stagger away is deliberately, archly “reservations only”. A phone call later and we’re on our way.
There’s nothing to announce Old Tom & English’s presence, other than a vast, gleaming brass doorbell – so speakeasy. But I’m confused: where’s the restaurant? This subterranean joint, designed by Lee Broom (the man responsible for the semi-iconic Crystal Bulb), looks like a bar. We eat cockle popcorn with salt and vinegar: impossible to dislike, but you could probably deep-fry fingernails, douse ’em in salt and vinegar and they’d go nicely with a cocktail. And kale and burnt apple salad, the fruit bullied to invisibility by the brassica. And smoked confit guinea fowl, its skin papery and crisp, its flesh tender and smoky; anchovy mayo is perhaps an umami blast too far. There are scallops, complete with coral, courgette puree and cubelets of black pudding – a forgettable, vanilla dish. Most of all, though, there are martinis. Bone-dry icy martinis, as good as you’ll get, the silver bullets of legend. We have three each.
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