I come from a widely spread family, dearest reader. Father
Peas resides in an island in the Med, Sister Peas and the Pea-Sprouts in the
convivial Welsh climate. There are other branches to this legume-inous family
tree, scattered around, but by and large I am a Pea without a Pod.
Imagine my joy, then, when the paternal Pea decided to
visit. Finally! There could be a familial Forty for Forty! I plotted and
planned and in the end came up with two marvellous meals: Arbutus with Father
Peas (or Rasputin as he shall hereafter be called) on the evening of his
arrival on our shores, and The Purple Poppadum with as many family members as I
could cram round a table.
They were, I have to confess, both amazing meals.
Arbutus is one of my favourite places to eat in London, but
I usually go for the pre-theatre menu. This time we chose from the a la carte,
and I am so very glad we did.
From the starters of a silky pearl barley risotto, topped
with a melting poached egg, and a square of deep fried pig’s head, savoury and
crunchy and paired perfectly with a smooth potato puree and some translucently
thin slices of pickled turnip that provided a sharp-sweet foil to the richness
of the meat, Rasputin was won over.
“This doesn’t look like I imagined,” he said, tucking in
with gusto. “I expected to see the pig’s face. Do you think the trotters will
be on the bone?”
Having grown up to the educational sight of my father
tucking into trotters he’d boiled himself, and tripe he had boiled with onions
in milk, I didn’t like to tell him the Pieds et Paquets he’d ordered would
arrive looking pretty and refined. This is a man who thinks the poshest thing
one can do to a trotter is to singe the bristles off, and possibly to trim the
toenail.
I feared for disappointment, for harsh words said to our
charming and oh-so-patient waiter – but my fears were groundless.
The dish arrived (over two stages, a sliver of toast topped
with minced trotters followed the heaped dish of lamb’s tripe and shoulder.
Readers of discrimination will be pleased to hear the tripe was unctuous and
savoury and hadn’t seen a pot of boiling milk at any stage of its preparation) and
Rasputin signified his approval by tucking in.
“It’s a good thing I’m getting my trousers let out,” he
said. “I’m going to the embassy for St Patrick’s day and they won’t fit after
this.”
Mr Green and I were facing a similar problem. We had both
plumped for the saddle of rabbit, served with carrots, and accompanied by a
slow-cooked cottage pie, and oh. It was all perfectly executed, though the star
of the show for me was the cottage pie. Comfort food at it’s finest.
Because our waiter, besides being patient and friendly, was
a minx, we had pre-ordered the Tarte Tatin for the table. That man knew how to
sell, but since the table next to us missed out by dint of being too slow, I
cannot find it in my heart to blame him. Especially not given how buttery and
wonderful it was, or how obligingly the minx packed up the leftover portion for
my sister.
The most pleasant surprise of the evening, however, was the
bill. Dinner for three, including a cocktail, beers, a very nice bottle of
wine, and service came to £158. Given that I’ve paid more per head in some
inferior chain pubs, this really drives home how brilliantly arbutus performs –
not just on the food and service, but on value for money.
Arbutus,
63-64 Frith Street,
London,
W1D 3JW, 020 7734 4545,
www.arbutusrestaurant.co.uk
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