I am very proud of Such a Dish, but maybe I should just call this ‘Gay Rayner’? 🏳️🌈
Spoiler alert: There is an NSFW moment further down. I’ve spent most of my adult life wondering why the most unusual situations find me - or maybe I find them? Or maybe I create them? Our dinner at Pig and Butcher (P&B), a great gastropub, near Upper Street left me wondering if I should review the restaurant or just our interactions with our wildly weird and wonderful waiter.
The beginning
Just before we went for supper (this time I was accompanied by my friends Bree and Chris - who met for the first time), I checked online and P&B was fully booked til 9.30pm. I called and a very unusually sounding man answered the phone and said he couldn’t fit us in (that’s not the NSFW bit). I have a trick though: I walk into a restaurant which, more often than not, keeps tables free and ask how the maitre d’ is doing. They’ll say something forgettable and I respond “I’m absolutely tremendous, thank you.” 94% of the maître d’s that I’ve encountered are floored by this response (in Britain, only) and proceed to ask why. I typically then say “because I’m so excited for you to find us a table!” It worked at P&B, prime time, in the middle of the restaurant. It also happened on Tuesday this week at Noble Rot (an amazing wine bar/restaurant) in Soho. And two weeks ago at The Marksman, in Hackney. So, the next time you go to a restaurant, without a reservation, don’t be typically shy and ask for/doubt they have a table - put them in a situation where they really just have to give it to you (also not the NSFW bit). OK, that was a lot of words for “we got lucky and got a table.”
The maître d’
You know the criteria. The waiter banter. Numero uno. The maître d’, who was also our waiter, would be an excellent candidate for cognitive psychology research. Or, you know, when people donate their brain after they die to be studied. His brain. Needs to be studied. I’ve spent all week thinking about how I would write this in the most appropriate way. Here goes:
There was a fly circling our table in a vulture-like manner. It was bothersome. Our waiter, Benedict, appeared out of nowhere - almost as if he’d come from the floor - looked at the fly, cupped the fly with his hands, escorted it out the door, and released it in the wild.
A fly. Not a butterfly. He wasn’t a lepidopterist. He wasn’t saving the endangered Hornet Robber fly or Tansy Beetle. It was just a fly. And he danced it out of the restaurant. He then returned to the table, as if none of that happened, and took our order.
The starters
OK, I haven’t even got to the meal yet. Nor the NSFW moment.
How often do you see ‘cultured’ preceding butter these days? It feels like a lot. Hands up if you know what that actually means (other than it being more expensive). Anyway, it was delish bread and butter with beef dripping. Seriously, the beef dripping tasted like guilt. Every teardrop of dripping is a SoulCycle class. And, of course, the ‘cultured’ butter had to be served on a piece of probably-not-sustainable tree. Bloody Islington.
It felt like an evening to have wine. You know, because it was an evening. And truly, what’s better than wine? Benedict let us try every wine by the glass on offer. They were all pretty acidic/too cold so we went for a delicious bottle of Die Wonderdraai, which was a lovely oaky Chenin Blanc. This time I didn’t ask for it to be like butter. We had enough of that.
The food was just delicious, tbh. For starters, we shared a couple of dishes between 3 (Chris had just eaten and I essentially coerced them into eating with me). Actually, on reflection, I think I ate most of the starters.
We had mackerel with what looked like ejaculate (I think it was buttermilk), horseradish, and pickled cucumber. It was really quite lovely. P&B are known for their Sunday roasts and we hadn’t been beyond that. The mackerel was light and the punch from the horseradish mixed with the sweet pickle was really clever. The courgette flower was stuffed with scallop and crab mousse and caviar (sorry, God) and was super decadent. But then it fell into that trap of being more decadent than purposeful - like the Royal Family? Scallop, crab, and caviar. Kind of ridiculous. I mean, that’s why I ordered it obviously. But all a bit superfluous with an incredulous price.
So, midway through the meal, and midway through wine bottle number two (important), I, in a moment of profanity, posed the question about the best/worst location for ejaculation. It’s an important posit and really the question of our time. At this very juncture the waiter appears. AND ANSWERS THE QUESTION. Have you seen Mr Deeds, with the eccentric butler, who appears without warning? That was our waiter. Apparently, Benedict likes to ejaculate into someone’s nostril. OK, that was the NSFW bit. It’s over now.
The mains and dessert
Phenomenal. But I have to pick a bone with P&B. The dish naming conventions are just a bit chi-chi. I had ‘Label Anglais chicken’ and Bree had ‘Lavington Hogget’. Just write chicken and lamb. It’s not impressive. The dishes were, that’s all you need really. My chicken jus was a finger-lickin’ moment. It was so sweet and creamy and didn’t feel calorific. The slightly crispy kale stayed so when run through the jus. Divine. But English label chicken sounds more like a Ralph Lauren product line than an item on a menu.
I’m not a big dessert fan. And I’m not sure I really understood this parfait - other than that it stayed a little firm, which was nice. The rhubarb was lovely as was the sorbet. It tasted a bit like Percy Pigs. That’s always a plus.
The results
The waiter banter: He removed a fly from our table with integrity and humanity. Then, in quick succession, joined in on an ejaculation conversation. And then, 10 minutes later, returned to clarify that it was a man. It was theatre. And you pay pretty good money for that in London.
The cooking fomo: Can I cook chicken ballotine? Probably (not). I definitely can’t make the jus. Or stuff a courgette flower with caviar and scallops. The food was yummy, and very restaurant-grade, but not the most memorable part. Bree’s chocolate cake (not pictured, sorry) was divine, though. And you should definitely go for the roast.
The wine consumption: We had two bottles of a great Chenin Blanc, and could easily have had a third. Well, I could’ve. It was a let’s drink wine, laugh lots and bond over Real Housewives of New York-kinda-evening and isn’t that what great times are all about?
It was £240 for 2 starters, 3 mains, 3 desserts, two bottles of wine and a partridge in pear tree. I’ll be back (for Benedict). Thanks for the mems, P&B.