SaltandSoy's Profile

Owing to innumerable indiscretions I’m resigned to the fact that if I’ll be reincarnated as a slug or, if I’m lucky, some sort of rodent. It’s an inescapable karmic reality reinforced by the fact that I’m about to stuff my face with enough beef and wine to render my stomach with Buddha-like rotundness. Gough’s on Gough is more fortunate. The recently shuttered restaurant has transmigrated up the karmic ladder. Based on merit accumulated in previous lives, Gough’s has reincarnated as one of the many ritzy new restaurants in Kai Kwun. Statement is it’s new name.From the Beatles on heavy soundtrack rotation, to the creative interpretations of nostalgic dishes, to the décor of aristocratic eccentricity, Gough’s has not just taken a leaf out of the book of Gough’s, it’s ripped-out and pilfered every bloody page. And that’s no bad thing. Goughs was pretty damn good. Gough’s, and now Statement, is an exemplar of that much maligned term, modern British. Like all the best restaurants that ascribe to that epithet, our Maître D' was French, the wine was new world and the customers were, by and large, antipodean.  The menu however was an epicurean homage to The Crown. Lunch is termed Luncheon and the Brunch menu is labelled The Britannia Brunch. It’s all as English as a sex scandal involving a minor royal and, well, a minor. Next to which there’s nothing more English than a roast potato. So it’s there we must start. I was hoping, expecting even, Statement to be heir apparent to the roast potato of Goughs. I couldn’t have been more wrong.Just look at that them. They’re pathetic. They weren’t crispy, they were the size of Lego bricks and they tasted like they’d been roasted in dishwater rather than goose fat. They had chives on for Christ’s sake. They stirred all the positive nostalgia as a visit from ‘a family friend’. It’s only really in retrospect I realise how wrong they were. That’s because I had been positively sedated by half a dozen momentous starters.There was fluffy brown bread smothered with marmite butter (which is as good as it sounds), pump oysters and cider vinegar, soft beetroot and smoked salmon, a wonderful ham hock terrine, sweet lobster meat on top of omelette squares and a sea urchin risotto that tasted like a happy winter’s day at the seaside. With the Britannia Brunch, all the aforementioned starters were for sharing and champagne was in free flow. There was as fine selection of mains, including Wiltshire guinea fowl with black pudding gravy, Pacific black cod with with saffron potatoes and shellfish consommé and salt-baked fish. On any other day of the week you’d be hard pressed to overlook them, but it’s Sunday, and that means one thing. The beef we all ordered was delivered ceremoniously on a silver plater. It was pink and juicy with a Yorkshire pudding and an amber coloured jus (it was most definitely jus and not gravy). Creamy, butter-sodden mashed sweet potato couldn’t quite make up for the roasties, but they did make a commendable effort to do so. It was all quite beautiful. Statement itself is also really rather beautiful. It’s Jay Gatsby meets a first class carriage on the Flying Scotsman. Large, comfortable booths encircle the high-ceilinged space, in which Art Deco cutglass and ornate panelling sit perfectly below the exposed iron skeleton of it’s former police barracks frame. As we leant back to both admire the architecture and pop open a couple of buttons, the dessert trolley was wheeled out like a near-death Princess Margaret. The delights with which it contained were the two fat ladies on a plate. Gout-inducing stodge, packed with sweet, delicious flavour and bags of personality. After Eight chocolate mouse was a big nostalgic hit, while fruit summer pudding was a massive sugar hit. I’ll forgive the fact that there was Victoria sponge on the dessert trolley (as this should only be served with tea upon visitation from the aforementioned ‘family friend’) because it was a fine example of that WI staple and by this time English sensibilities had alcoholicly fallen by the wayside. We waddled out into the haze of the warm winter’s sun – an alcoholic haze that would carry through to Monday morning. Credit card statements show that a great many more drinks were had in the courtyard and photos reveal we attempted – with some success – to balance said drinks on the juvenile terrorists head. A jolly good time was had by all. Shame about the roast potatoes. …Read More

“Hey man, wanna go for lunch”“In a bit Carlos, I’m just in the middle of something”“No man, let’s go now”“Ok, let’s go”As a six-foot-something hulking Colombian, Carlos is not a man you argue with. We work in Quarry Bay where there’s quality eatery abound. From the more agreeable chain restaurants, to over-priced client entertaining joints, to hygienically satisfactory mom and pop shops; there’s probably no greater concentration of interesting lunch spots in Hong Kong                                                                                                  “Where do you want to go Carlos? La Rotisserie? Sen-Ryo? We could even walk to Big Bite?”“No, man, I got a treat for you”“Cool, where are we going… there are no restaurants that way… that’s a taxi rank… oh, we’re getting in a taxi”As a Colombian who has been shot at three times and stabbed once, Carlos is not a man you argue with. No, my creative compadre thinks nothing of a thirty-minute taxi ride on a busy Wednesday lunchtime. After our half-hour traffic stunted journey, we pull up to an unassuming storefront at the top end of Graham Street. Despite the long queues of chirpy young office workers that hung out of Soho’s more fashionable restaurants, our destination, Chullschick is half full and we sit straight down. Chullschick is Hong Kong’s authentic Peruvian outpost. Our wooden table gently rocked on three legs. Machu pichu and Cholas murals were painted on the terracotta wall. And the sound of Latin crooners filled the air. It’s all very reassuring. This was not a restaurant with something to prove and therefore, not a restaurant that was likely to overwhelm or disappoint. Looking around, many people we’re digging into the eponymous chicken. On another day a whole bird and plate of chips would have rendered me very content. But Carlos was ordering and, as you’ve no doubt now realised, Carlos is not a man you argue with. We ordered three dishes. The first, Lomo Saltado, was a fantastically daft dish that looks looked like it had designed by a six-year-old on a sugar high. Fries, rice, egg, beef, tomato and onion were all stir fried and piled onto a single plate. This Peruvian staple has a distinctively Chinese bent courtesy of a rich soy-based sauce. Part BBQ sauce, part gravy, part tears of a fallen angel who wound up in a South-American protein orgy, the liquid that bound the unlikely cast of ingredients had incredible depth. The juicy chunks of tenderloin were relegated to the sidelines by the oyster sauce and molasses of the black liquor, while rice and fries became mere absorbent vessels for it.The name and description of our second dish, Duck Rice, didn’t really do justice to its end result. The entirety of the plate was covered in deliciously viscous rice, turned swampy green thanks to a aromatic blend of coriander and spinach. On top of which perched confit duck leg and smoked duck breast. The breast was sweet, pink and succulent without it’s fat being clammy or cloying. The leg confit was nice enough. There was an unnecessary egg.  Our third and final dish was Peruvian Grill. Hunks of chicken, steak, chorizo and sweet potato arrived sizzling on a stainless steel platter. The baked sweet potato was fragranced with cinnamon and a light scorching of the skin. The meat was jovial and juicy, swimming in it’d own garlic imbued swine, bovine and poultry nectar.                                                                                                                                                                                                “What’s the damage, Carlos”“What are you talking about, man?”“How much did it cost?”“Ah, don’t worry about it, man. You can get it next time”As a generous man who never lets you pay – even next time, Carlos is not a man you argue with. Plodding down Graham street’s decline with gravity taking a greater toll on forward momentum due to full a tummy and lethargic legs, I felt happy. And what’s the point of food – beyond sustenance of life – if not to make us happy.Slouched, smiling and gurning like smacked-up addict in the returning taxi, I had a chance to reflect on our mood-altering meal and a year of eating out. Looking back over my 2019 reviews, there’s a lack of restaurants that made me feel this happy. Uncomplicated restaurants that deliver big plates of big flavours with a complete lack of pretence and artifice. Restaurants like Chullschick, Serendib and Northern dumpling Yuan are a remedy for sadness, and I should seek them out with greater fervour.I don’t really go in for new year’s resolutions, but in 2020 I’m going to make it my mission to find simpler restaurants that put a smile on my face. “That was bloody good, Carlos”“I told you, man”As a man who knows damn good food and exactly where to find it, Carlos is not a man you argue with.…Read More

I wanted to hate Cenacolo with every fibre of my being. The ‘Steak and pasta’ joint occupies the Des Voeux Road space that, until relatively recently, housed my absolute favourite restaurant, Roda. Roda was pretty much perfect; an exemplar of what modern dining should be; serious but inviting, butch with graceful delivery, injecting vital life into an area bereft of identity. However, gone is the glorious open kitchen and fire stove, crudely covered by a faux brickwork. Gone are the draught taps of house wine and small batch ales, replaced by Italian nun’s piss  (Peroni). Gone is the cosmopolitan crowd of international gastronomes, replaced by miserable families buried in their phones and their distain for each other. But, remarkably, I didn’t hate Cenacolo. In fact, I quite liked it. Cenacolo is not trying to be anything she’s not. She knows she’s no Scarlett Johnson. She knows that, even with a bit of work, she’s a solid five-and-a-half-out-of-ten. She knows she only has to satisfy easy to satisfy punters – and satisfy them she does. With simple starters, tasty pasta and unassuming mains; she meets, but feels no need to surpass expectations. Mrs A, the juvenile terrorists and I were shown to a table (a table very familiar to Mrs A and I from a different life) and presented with sweet milk bread and watery balsamic vinegar. Fortunately, this was the low point. My starter of mussels that followed set a course of surprising enjoyment. A small tapas dish containing a dozen or so plump, fresh mussels swam in rich peppery liquor. It included a side of lightly charred sourdough, which had it been served as the bread course, would have provided a much more hospitable start. Apart from the aforementioned brick wall, all other fixture and fittings in Cenacolo remain pretty much as they did when Roda was above the door (assumably snapped-up in a fire-sale, job-lot from the JIA Group). This is no bad thing. There are not too many restaurants of Cenacolo’s ambition that could aspire to the washing machine art instillation or the award-winning interior design.As you might expect, the menu is big with a wide array of neo-European dishes. Luckily the variety of dishes I’m able to select recently increased by fifty-percent. No parent will ever admit to the most rewarding aspect of procreation; the ability to order two main dishes without reprisal. So, I ordered a child-sized portion of meatball spaghetti in full knowledge I’d enjoy the majority of it. What I hadn’t anticipated was the size of the child-sized portion – it was twice the size of the juvenile terrorist’s head! But not to worry, the tomato sauce in which the meatballs sat had a pure tomato sweetness, unsullied by too may ingredients or an over ambitious chef. I ate far too much of it while I waited for my main to arrive.  … which was steak (I know, I know - https://saltandsoy.com/2019/09/01/beefbar/). The steak was absolutely fine. And I don’t mean that as a slight. It was well cooked and came with pretty good fries.  Mrs A enjoyed a tiramisu while I enjoyed mopping tomato sauce from the juvenile terrorist’s face. All in all, it was a very pleasant evening. The overall experience was akin to meeting a most awful person only to realise they’re actually rather affable, charming even. There are many problems with Cenacolo, but none are insurmountable, and none detract from the rather cheery atmosphere.It doesn’t happen very often, and it might be a sign of my advanced life stage, but Cenacolo met my expectation and did everything I needed it to on an early Sunday evening. Where once Sunday evenings were occupied with the advanced stages of a hangover, The National and some good French cheese, now I’m very happy to while away an hour or two in a restaurant like Cenacolo. It provided my daughter with sustenance, Mrs A with adequate white wine and me with simple, tasty food. Make a reservation expecting the same and you’ll be quite content. …Read More

Waitress: May I explain the menu?Me: By all meansWaitress: It’s spilt into four. Me: ok… Waitress: Starters, mains, sides and desserts.Me: ok… Waitress: Most people order a starter, main and possibly a side. If they’re still hungry they have a dessert. Me: Great, thank you so much.  With a warm smile and endearing nervousness, it was hard to feel anything but support for our prentice waitress. But the exchange did highlight an unnecessary over-engineering of service delivery that came to typify our evening. Kinship is the brainchild (and possibly lovechild if the gushing marketing is anything to go by) of Chris Grare (him of Lilly and Bloom) and Arron Rhodes (of Gough’s on Gough fame). My admiration for Gough’s knows no bounds and there was a lot to like about Lilly and Bloom, so expectations were set pretty high. First impressions were good. Before she’d had a chance to deconstruct the menu, our jolly waitress showed us to one of the better tables that encircle the central cheap seats. The air was filled with sweet meaty smells wafting from the open kitchen and Easy-E expressing his opinions of law enforcement professionals.Toeing that fashionable line between Art Deco and warehouse industrial, the interior has been artfully, if not intelligently, designed. We were unable to quite forget we were in a big square purpose-built room, which detracted from the atmosphere somewhat. Without two groups of rowdy Brit’s I suspect the atmosphere would have been rather anaemic.With the waitress’s erudite recommendation in mind, we ordered quickly, and I opted for a starter of beef tartar, main of duck ravioli and reserved judgement on desserts. Mrs A. chose risotto, chicken, a side of mash (as instructed by me as I couldn’t very well order it to accompany my ravioli) and mentally selected the Mr Whippy dessert. The wine list was well curated and reasonably priced. But there is a lack of consideration with the rest of the drinks menu; there are just five cocktails (one of which is a gin & tonic) and two beers (Asahi and Brooklyn). As the focaccia had a $68 price tag, we dived into our starters. My beef tartar arrived via Sumatra; the generous portion of diced cow was accompanied by lime samba, bean salad and roasted peanut sauce. It was all very pleasant, but I was hoping for a hit of lip-numbing spice from the sambal. The dish needed something to contrast the sweet-fresh salad, sweet-soft beef and sweet-sweet sauce, but there was nothing akin to a tabasco karate chop to the back of the throat. Mrs A’s burnt onion risotto had the consistency of Ambrosia rice pudding. All flavour came courtesy of onions sprinkles and a deep-fried egg yolk beignet. It was all a bit big and a bit dense. Like many of the dishes on the menu, the risotto seems to have designed around ease of construction. The pre-made rice pudding can be dolloped in the bowl and sprinkled with the crispy shallot, leaving the flash frying of the beignet as the only real manual task. Which makes the shear number of kitchen staff somewhat confusing. There were about ten of the poor buggars trying (and failing) to look busy in full view of the restaurant. They could have been kept busy polishing a few spoons. Because, in an utterly unnecessary, self-aware gesture, our dirty cutlery was taken from our plates and placed on the table after each course. My main was not so much a ravioli as it was rich braised duck ragu between two slightly plasticky compact discs of pasta. The duck had the type of rich flavour that speeds up food delivery from plate to mouth by a factor of two. The Lo Soi (according to Google, a stock-based sauce) also had deep Indonesian bent to the flavour and a light ginger cream that sat on top of the CD-sized pasta disc. The dish was utterly bonkers and – pasta notwithstanding – it worked and worked well. Mrs A’s. chicken was fantastic. With a crispy skin, a tomato ragu and big nuggets of garlic, the big rustic flavours were pure Provence. The unapologetically European flavours of the chicken contrasted (clashed) with the Asian fusion of our other dishes. I get it, in these woke times we should all embrace the melting pot of culinary diversity, encouraging interracial union of flavours and cuisines. That’s all well and good until you decide to steal your wife’s food to find that thyme and lemongrass get along with each other as well as a couple of Middle-Eastern States. Around this time our plates (but not cutlery) were cleared for the second time, the music thinned to power pop rock. As the tinpot speakers struggled to do justice to The Pixies, Mrs. A put in her Mr Whippy order. It was a big clumsy bowl of type two diabetes. A handful of Cadburys Misshapes and M&S caramel were scattered on top of a small mountain of ice cream. Truth be told, I enjoyed the bowl of potato more than the ice cream. If given a tablespoon and a choice, it would be the be white cream of vegetable I’d stuff into my mouth. If you’re going to the trouble and expense of installing a Mr Whippy machine, do something with it – create a pudding that’s truly celebratory, not this lazy mess. Overall, Kinship feels consciously compromised. Like the Flying Elks, Forbidden Ducks and Bread Street Kitchens of the world, whenever a renowned chef trades-down the results usually disappoint. Unlike the Black Sheep’s and Pirata’s of this world – who know how to do affordable occasion dining – Kinship gets too many fundamentals wrong. Kinship is a labour of love between its proprietors. Unfortunately, it’s a more laboured than loveable. It falls between a few too many stools and in a city of distinctive restaurants, it simply doesn’t feel unique enough. …Read More

Italians create extraordinary pleasure from the simplest of things. Unlike their Gallic neighbours, who are the undisputed masters of alchemistic transformations, real Italian cuisine is the art of sacrifice. Less is more. As few ingredients as possible, matched and complimented by big, simple flavours. Because of this – and you must whisper this very quietly – the cuisines of coastal Italy wipe the floor with traditional French gastronomy. There is of course bad food in Italian seaside towns – in fact quite a lot – but they save that for the American (and now Chinese) tourists; who waddle pied piper fashion off cruise ships and into the first Romany pizza joint with a checked table cloth. The Italians hide the good stuff down dark Venetian alleys, in unassuming beachfront cafes and up long dusty tracks that have been the ruin of many a Ferragamo loafer. And the same is true in Hong Kong. Run by reluctant exiles from the old country, the very best Italian restaurants retain a low profile. These sweaty Gercepies turn out plate after plate, year after year. Fortunately, restaurants like Brata and Trattoria Caffe Monteverdi have remained decidedly off TimeOut lists and away from Susan Jung’s expense account. I’d also only really heard of Osteria Marzia via word of mouth. Friends have gushed about it’s fresh seafood since its opening in late 2017. However, Osteria Marzia is anything but inconspicuous. It’s design is pure Edward Hopper with atmosphere spilling out into the Wanchai street courtesy of three-quarter length windows. In a sea of grey concrete and foreboding flyovers, the restaurant flaunts the warmth of the Amalfi. The atmosphere intensifies as you walk through the door. A wave of sweet seafood from the morning’s catch (delivery) fills your nostrils and the sound of a Tuscan buxom beauties wailing unrequited love songs fills the air.With negronis in hand we take our seat at the table. Before long we had a plate of warm bread, anchovies and good butter. The salty, saline punch from slithers of anchovy was revelatory. My only gripe was the scant portion size. Even with a meagre spread, two measly slithers of anchovy were no match for the generous bread.We started with six unctuous Oysters which were served with a bucket red wine vinegar. The vinegar was finished with a fizzle of Prosecco, which caused the oyster to perform one final jittery death dance as she careered down your gullet. Next, a plate of thinly slice sea bass was delivered with a flurry of showmanship and yet more Prosecco. The sparkling wine, lemon juice and pink rock salt were applied at the table, curing the delicate meat in front of our eyes. The result was such sweet pleasure, akin to eating the Little Mermaid. At $368 for a starter, the price is very punchy, but very worth it. I once commented that the best hotel restaurants are not hotel restaurants, they are restaurants that happen to be in hotels. At the time, a newly opened Italian, Theo Minstal was very much the former. Osteria Marzia is very much the latter. You won’t be served anaemic bacon in the morning and you won’t have to watch grotty businessmen rub up against ladies of the night in the evening. Osteria Marzia is a proper restaurant that just happens to be on the ground floor of a very cool hotel. In fact, the only way you know you’re in a hotel is passing a stoney faced concierge on your way to the loo. Back to the food. A betting man would place his house on this Italians scoring a early wonder goal in the form of the pasta course – a beautiful Baggio-esk thirty-yard set piece. Unfortunately, we have Gary Linekar taking a dump in the centre circle at Italia ’90. Neither of the two dishes (red prawn tonarrelli and fennel-pistachio pesto) were particularly good. Neither had troubled a pot of bubbling water for anywhere near long enough (I, like any sane person like my pasta al dente, but this was simply undercooked). And neither sauce lived up to the billing of the ingredients. The sauce coating the hard raw dough of the Red Prawn Tonarrelli had a burnt metallic fishy taste that bordered on unpleasant. The pesto dish was better but still not good enough. It’s truly a testament to the quality of the other dishes and to the overall experience that the pasta didn’t ruin proceedings. Redemption quickly came in the form of a whole roasted sea bass and a big slab of sirloin. Both were butch dishes of moist meat that tasted exactly as they should have done. Although, I would have liked a little more caper in the fish’s caper butter and a little more anchovy in the beef’s anchovy butter. The side dishes packed more than enough flavour to compensate. Our broccoli had sticky garlicky spice, the squashed roast potato had a deep rosemary perfume and zucchini fritti tasted of spring harvest. But as much as flavour, it’s the experience you take away from Osteria Marzia. The whole experience is a blast. Our fresh off the boat antipodean waiter, Sebastian (who was fantastic all evening) encouraged and shared in lemonchello shots to round-off the meal. Where the Frenchman practice culinary appreciation, the Italian seek culinary joy. And Osteria Marzia is pure joy.…Read More

When choosing a restaurant, I try to follow one simple rule more than any other – If I can achieve the same results in my shoebox kitchen, I’ll give it a miss. This rules out many a just-alike-a-mamma-never-used-to-make pasta joint and even more Costello-cum-soup-kitchen-avocado-on-toast spots. It also rules out most steakhouses; as nipping down to Bones and Blades and firing up the balcony Webber never ever disappoints. Yes, steak is one if the single greatest things you can put in your mouth. But I find increasing expense usually delivers diminishing returns. The bill at a high-end steak restaurant – especially those sporting a Michelin star –  rarely justifies the enjoyment. The minimum standard you expect from any restaurant that purveys slabs of cow is that it’s well cooked and flavoursome and – this should be a cause of celebration, by the way – most Hong Kong restaurants deliver this. When dining out in Hong Kong, a good steak is, dare I say it, almost ubiquitous. So, why do people pay the extortionate prices? I, if you’ll indulge me, have a theory. It’s a theory born in California…The Magic Castle is a one-time highest rated LA hotel on Trip Advisor. In almost every respect, it’s a run-of-the-mill, 3-star, fibreglass-fronted, probably cockroaches in your bed sort of Hollywood hotel. With one exception; it has a thing. A thing is both easy and impossible to define, implying, as it does, both everything and nothing. In the Magic Castle’s case, the thing is a red phone. A red phone which when called, will dispatch a silver platter of ice-cold popsicles to your sun lounger. It’s thing creates a moment of memorable magic that renders the Magic Castle utterly unique, resulting in unanimous five-star reviews. Which brings me back to steakhouses. More than any other category of eatery, steak restaurants need a thing. Something you remember beyond a well cooked hunk of meat. Something that makes people say ‘You know… that steak restaurant with the ’.Often a chef will create a thing of the beef itself, resulting in an alms race of cow pampering. To my mind however, it matters not if the heffer was massaged by half a dozen virgins while it gorged on Château Latour as Jack Nicholson whispers filth in it’s ear, it’s eating won’t justify the mortgage you’ll need to pay it. You can hide a multitude of bovine sins by making a thing out of the side dishes. La Vache for example, hides very average steak with bottomless fries. While it’s bigger sister, Buenos Aires Polo Club, hides bad value with a conceptual thing. Not to be outdone, that life-sapping, vapid, money pit of a place, Macau, takes the experiential thing to extremes. Every 30-minutes the lights of The SW Steakhouse dim, resting gamblers look-up from their phones, and a wonderful, utterly bonkers puppet cabaret springs into action. Hey presto, a thing. Which finally, finally brings me round to the focus of this week’s review, Beefbar. Beefbar is a Monte Carlo based chain (I’m not sure of the collective noun for Michelin-starred restaurants, so chain will have to do) of up market steak restaurants. It’s Ice House Street premises have all the trappings of ostentatiousness; marble, leather, cold lighting and colder service. I, along with some man friends (one of whom was a stag for the evening) were ready to line our stomachs in the most opulent fashion and find out what Beefbar’s thing is. After obligatory beers, we each started with a mini burger (again, just call it a bloody slider) and I opted for the jalapeño option. This was three bites of a wonderfully decadent, sopping wet burger, light brioche bun and a lingering kick of jalapeño mayonnaise. It had me salivating for more beef. Beefbar has a many cuts from many breeds. People partial to cows that undergone a degree of bothering can choose from both Kobe and Wagyu. Those of us who go by size and price can choose between US and Australian Angus. I went for a 500g boneless ribeye Angus (even at $880, it was one of the cheaper cuts). It arrived in a beautiful cast iron baking dish – a dish which I’m sure has never seen any cooking action. As someone who appreciates good kitchenware, it pained me to see the expensive enamel without glistening bloodied juice or sticky caramelised fat. I would much prefer the steak to arrive on a plate. And how did it taste? Well, it was a bloody good steak – but at nine-hundred bucks it bloody well should be. A host of sides were also ordered, and I remember the creamed spinach being particularly good. But, thimbles of annealed Béarnaise were no match for the fries and offered scant accompaniment to the steak.A small copper saucepan of Robuchon-esk mash potato, laden with Comte and lacquered with a caramelised lid, was the star of the sideshow. It was smooth, sumptuous and quite divine.The same can’t be said for our wine. We ordered two bottles of Bordeaux. The first tasted like a concoction of vinegar and port. The sommelier reluctantly replaced it, citing something strange about their method of storage as an excuse. The second left a mass of black pelleted decayed cork (not dissimilar to cockroach entrails) in our glasses. In a Michelin starred restaurant, serving wine that poor once could be excused as bad luck, serving it twice is incompetent, charging full price for it is unforgivable. The wine left a sour taste and we ordered dessert rather reluctantly. The dessert however, were all very good. We enjoyed a light chocolate soufflé, a raspberry donut and some sort of banana and marshmallow mouse. This made-up somewhat for the wine. It would be cruel to say that Beefbar’s thing is bad wine. It would also be too generous to say it was the mash potato. Sadly, Beefbar has no thing. It’s thingless. It’s the Lord Varys of the Hong Kong steakhouses. As such, I can happily give it a four-star review, but I unfortunately can’t recommend that you go. If you want great steak, give me an hour’s notice and I’ll fire up the Webber. …Read More

In these troubled times we find ourselves, writing about restaurants feels trivial, disrespectful even. As I look around at the plutocrats pissing away their inherited wealth on wine they don’t understand, apathetic towards the plebeian protestors and their selfish pursuit of a fairer future, it’s hard not to see restaurants like Louise as part of the problem. This sets an unfairly high bar when reviewing it. Louise – the sister restaurant of Asia’s best – can’t just be good, she needs to exceptionally good – so good that she causes me to abandon my moral fortitude for a few hours, forget the city is on fire and ignore the very real possibility of my parents-in-law never making it past the airport departure gate. A high bar indeed. Louise occupies the two-story PMQ space previously frequented by Aberdeen Street Social. With soft lighting and an Insta-cool forest green palette, the downstairs Bar is gorgeous but lacked any real human atmosphere on the night we were there. The upstairs interior isn’t quite as successful feeling, as it is, a Hong Kongers interpretation of Parisian dining. There are nice flourishes here and there but these are overshadowed by the big boxy Kef speakers that too frequently punctuate the white wood panelling and pump out new wave French drivel. Louise promised ‘traditional French cuisine, reimagined’. That word after the unnecessary comma renders mistaken expectation. I was anticipating progressive wank and whimsey. I’m very glad to be wrong. What we have in Louise is a cannon of classic French gastronomy. Big, opulent,  unapologetic French gastronomy. It’s a menu of Dover sole, Pâté en croûte and frogs legs (which, for reasons beyond my comprehension, are labelled as Hong Kong frogs legs, as if that’s some sort of virtue. ‘Monsieur, cahn I offair you ze frahgs legs? zey were caught een a Mong Kok puddle ziss very mahrneeng’. No merci, mate). Mrs A, whose decision making is normally catatonic, selected her two dishes (the signature oeuf fume and sweetbread) with uncharacteristic certitude before I’d even had chance to open my menu. So, I was effectively down two dishes. Not to worry, I’ll have the Heirloom tomato tart and Poulet I’ve heard so much about. Sadly not, both dishes were now finished for the evening (we booked the second sitting). Other dishes were struck-off before I really had chance to consider them. I eventually landed upon shellfish and beef. A generous batch of sourdough kept us occupied before our dishes arrived. Regular readers may have noticed I’m particularly pedantic about bread. Firstly, that’s because I really love good bread. But, secondly, it’s because I find the consideration given to the bread course a particularly good indicator of the consideration given to the overall experience (Jay Rayner feels the same way about restaurant toilets). If a chef bakes his own bread he generally care about his/her diners. If – and I’m pretty sure Louise does – a chef cultures a sourdough starter, then you are usually in for a treat.The sourdough at Louise was magnificent. A rugged crust of oak, smoke and roasted hazelnut protected soft spongy innards. When slathered with the seed crusted salty butter it was utterly scrumptious. A cook tease (amuse bouche) of sweet heirloom tomato and watermelon was very nice. The flavours were fashionable and tasty, but they’ve been done to death recently. Mrs A’s starter was the star of the day. Smoked organic egg, potato, chorizo and buckwheat somehow all came together in a perfect little bowl of creamy beige cream. The cream had the colour and consistency of Dulux Grand Piano emulsion, occasionally punctuated by small, salty pieces of fried chorizo. It was velvety, frothy and very French. Oo-la-la, it was good – or, I should say, the one teaspoon Mrs A would allow me to have was very good. My starter of shellfish à la marinière was cut from a similar cloth. Luxuriously fresh mussels and razor clams hung in a light buttery liquor. Slices of fennel gave the sauce a light perfume but they were too cumbersome to be cut and enjoyed with the poncey spoon I’d been given. My father-in-law had a far simpler, but by no means less impressive, plate of salmon gravlax. Each of the mains consisted of a perfectly cooked hunk of meat – be it duck, beef fillet or veal sweetbread – all of which were the size of my daughter’s head. Each came with a small adornment of vegetables and a sumptuous sauce that kicked a magic mule. Given the generous portion sizes we opted out of dessert and made do with four perfect little Canelé. So, the fare at Louise is very good. But there’s something missing. An absent je nais quoi. The Gallic arrogance on display hasn’t quite been earned. There are too many rough edges in the service delivery. My overwhelming recollection of dining in France is an experience of being totally taken care of. On our first trip to Paris together, a teenage Mrs A and I naively made a reservation at Le George V – a restaurant utterly out of our league and price bracket. Despite foregoing wine, sharing courses and ordering the cheapest mains, the staff went out of their way to make us feel like millionaires. Service at Louise doesn’t come close to this. It was all slightly clumsy, lacking the regimental flair I associate with French dining. All the requisite roles (chubby maitre d, geeky sommelier, young waitress) are there, but they’re an am-dram interpretation of what they should be. The maitre d failed to offer a wine menu, the sommelier sauntered over with awkward confidence of a drunk history teacher at a school dance and my mother-in-law was virtually scorned for ordering a dish from the downstairs menu. All of which detracted from the experience and focused attention back onto the amount you’re being charged for the privilege. So, did Louise attain the high bar set by Odette. Not quite. We didn’t loose ourselves in the experience. The painful malaise of our city streets was never far from minds and conversation, and we left feeling a tad underwhelmed.  …Read More

I must warn my reader from the outset; if you’re put-off by the vulgarity and vagrancy that often litters my writing, a review of an oyster restaurant might not be for you. Because, although they’ve slipped down the league table of aphrodisiacs (now lying somewhere between Jäger Bombs and Netflix in the virgin curing stakes) oysters still have unadulterated sex appeal. Slimy, salty, succulent sex appeal. And I intend to use every slimy, salty euphemism the dark recesses of my mind can muster. If you choose to stop reading at this point, I offer this summary; Taylor Shellfish Farms purveys damn fine oysters and you won’t regret a visit. The odds in oyster roulette are now very much stacked in favour of the eater. Contrary to popular belief, you rarely get a bad one – although I have had a disproportionate number of bad ones in Hong Kong – but when you do, by god they’re bad; chewing on a breeding mule’s labia bad (I did warn you). But when you get a good one, by Jesus Christmas they’re good; post-orgasmic lightheaded aghast good. As with so many sins of the flesh, as you grow older you question why you didn’t start younger. I hadn’t eaten an oyster until well into my late twenties. As such I wasn’t privy to their beguiling beauty, but I also wasn’t privy to the ceremony which their eating demands. The misty glacial spread of the serving platter; the child-sized fork that adeptly scrapes naked milky flesh from ragged shell; the quick pour, the brief roll around the mouth and the sharp upturn of the chin that sends the chilly meaty money shot slipping down your throat. Perhaps as a result of this ridiculous pomp and ceremony, oysters are eaten on occasion. And with occasion comes memories. Many an oysters has shucked a distinct place and time into my mind’s eye. This year for example, I forced my six-month-old child to brave sub-zero temperatures so her parents could gorge on the best oysters in the Alps. In an unassuming garden shed on the side of an icy road in landlocked Courchevel 1650, the finest Bélon oysters are delivered daily. Like so much of gastronomy, the very best oysters are unfortunately Gallic in origin. As is the case with Taylor Shellfish. My choice is the French White Pearl. They maybe the size of a $2HK coin but at $59HK each, pound for pound you’ll struggle to find more expensive oysters. But they are very, very good. They are sweet, smooth and perfectly formed.Mrs A and I would happily make short work of two-dozen of the wee crustaceans. However, the menu contains no less than 32 varieties of oysters. As is now evident I quite like oysters, but with 32 we cross a line from appreciation to pedantry. With 32 choices paralysis sets in. So, I asked the waitress for her finest oyster. With a wide grin she scurried away, quickly returning with a oyster that literally glistened. The Ostra Regal Gold Standard oyster spends his adolescence in the harsh Atlantis sea in Clew Bay, Ireland before maturing in the more sheltered, peat-rich environment of Bannow Cove, South-West Ireland. Finally, she (after three years the hermaphroditic oyster typically identifies as female) is dispatched to Ile d’Oleron, France, where she acquires a gold leave coating – a vajazzle, if you will – and a hefty price tag. Now, I’ve never seen a vajazzle in the wild before. And I’ve always assumed they were a form of low rent body art; a tramp stamp for the too-long-didn’t-read generation. I’ve never stopped to consider they might be a signifier of well kept female appendage. But that is what we have with the vajazzled oyster. It was quite simply divine. Mrs A put best when describing the taste as “the very essence of oyster”. The menu didn’t do a bad job either, describing it thus; “tastes pure, rich flavour and sweet scallop, nut aftertaste”. They are – and I can’t emphasise this enough – perfect. Yet, Taylor Oyster Farm isn’t perfect. The middle of the road wine is too expensive, the music consists of the entirety of Spotify on shuffle and the squid we ordered was over cooked and oily. But all of that is unnecessary first-base foreplay. My advice is to wet your lips, wrap them around an open oyster and don’t come up for air until there are a dozen appeased carcasses lying in front of you.  …Read More

As is now the fashion, I’m compelled to apologise on behalf of my country for events far beyond my control. As a Brit, my sorrow and shame at Brexit knows no bounds. I hereby apologise unreservedly for the unnecessary, senseless chaos my home country has embarked upon and, by extension, imposed on the world.  As a Brit, I also feel compelled to apologise for the new Bread Street Kitchen. The new Bread Street, like Brexit, fails to reflect the modern, progressive culinary society we (and more specifically, Gordon Ramsey) have worked so hard for. It’s easy to forget amongst the bravado, swearing and idiot sandwiches that Gordon Ramsey’s reputation as a chef is beyond reproach. Before Gordon, London was a gastronomic backwater, drowning in a sea of thick gravy and lumpy mash potato. Somewhere in the early noughties, he began delivering serious dishes with an elegance and deftness of touch that simply hadn’t been seen on our side of the channel. We have none of that at the new Peak Galleria outpost. Like Brexit, what we have is borrowed nostalgia and broken promises. Bread Street promises modern British cooking but borrows a menu from a more wholesome non-existent time.If this were an episode of Kitchen Nightmares the 44 food item menu would be torn to shreds. Like the menu, the dishes are dense. The beef ragu pudding, beef wellington and shepherd’s pie would all have me salivating if it were a cold autumn day in London. But on a humid spring day in Hong Kong they had me sweating. And, regardless of the restaurants desired informality, and regardless of how artery-cloggingly delicious it may sound, fried buffalo chicken burger with franks hot sauce and blue cheese sauce simply shouldn’t be on a Ramsey menu.So with hesitation, we ordered a steak (Mr. A) and a burger (Mrs. A). As someone who wants to understand the pedigree and potential of a restaurant, I shouldn’t have order steak and burger. But the margin for error with all the dishes on the menu (perhaps with the exception of the Wellington) is huge. And here I’ll present my final tenuous Brexit analogy, with its menu, Bread Street leaves very little room to impress and lots of roomto disappoint. A great shepherd’s pie is a great shepherd’s pie – but deserves no plaudits. A bad shepherd’s pie is unforgivable. Shortly after ordering a wooden board of warm focaccia and caramelized onion butter was delivered. Now, I don’t know about you, but to me, caramelized onion butter sounds like the stuff of dreams. I was ready to herald it as the finest use of butter since The Last Tango In Paris. I ate it, it was ok. But the steak and burger arrived soon after. Both were very good. They were tender, juicy and flavoursome. The béarnaise sauce was well balanced. And, the chips... well, the chips were great. Like mini crispy, fluffy roast potatoes, they were the best I can remember having in Hong Kong. But still it’s hard to be impressed. Your opinion of Gordon Ramsey will depend on when and whence you came. I, as a middle-class, middle-aged (I’m not, but for the purpose of sentence construction, let’s pretend) chap from middle-England, remember a time when going to a Ramsey restaurant was unattainably extravagant, representing the height of progressive gastronomy. This goes a long way to explaining the many Brits attired Sunday finery (my little family included) while everyone else was in sweaty Lycra, fanny packs and sun visors. And this gets to the heart of the Bread Street’s problem; who’s supposed to be the audience? Is it people wanting a great dining experience or is it people wanting sustenance having trudged up the Morning Trail? I suspect it’s the latter. If it were about the former I would expect, along with mouth-watering food, mouth-watering views of Hong Kong (why else would you open a restaurant on the top of a mountain). I can confirm that the new Bread Street provides unparalleled views of the peak tram queue. The staff however, as is usually the case in Ramsey restaurants, are incredible; charm personified and attentive to a fault. Not one of them tired of picking up the wooden blocks that my baby daughter delighted in chucking on the floor. But even they couldn’t compensate for a flawed concept.With its relocation up the peak, Bread Street Kitchen could have, and should have taken a long hard look at itself. It could have designed a menu around seasonal produce that reflects modern British cuisine. It didn’t. It’s not quite a kitchen nightmare, but it’s certainly reminiscent of that unnerving feeling of waking up somewhere unfamiliar, looking to your right and realizing you’ve made a very big mistake. Gordon, I have nothing but admiration for you, but you’re better than this. …Read More

There’s a rhythm to Chaiwala, the contemporary Indian restaurant from Pirata Group. It has vibrant colour, a wry sense of humour and, above all, real swagger.  It’s located in a large basement on Wyndham Street previously frequented by Zafran. But unlike the evicted tapas bar, Chaiwala knows how to fill the space, making a virtue of its convoluted layout. A Chai Bar, Kitchen and Dining Hall each possess their own unique design but all possess the same pulsing atmosphere for which Pirata prides itself.  Chaiwala has taken a hefty leaf from the rulebook of its sister restaurant, TokyoLima. Now, I wasn’t a fan of TokyoLima (after multiple trips I’m still not) but I admire its ambition. High concept, bold flavours and modern service. But, where TokyoLima fails to marry ambition with execution, Chaiwala does so with style and panache.  I’ve been to Chaiwala twice now (a new addition to my family put paid to any new reviews in the latter half of last year) and enjoyed excellent service and scrumptious fare from the set menu on both occasions. What follows is a summary of the best bits.  I started with my guilty pleasure, a pina colada. This was no normal pina colada; this was a Punjab Cadillac Colada; it had saffron aromatized Diplomatico Planas (nope, I’ve no idea either) and was served in vase. I liked it.  A procession of small plates began to arrive. I couldn’t really fault any of them.  The Pana Puri – crispy bird’s nest potato structures containing very nice vegetable bits and bobs – were a relatively new one for me. We were instructed to pour in some tangy cumin water and eat them in one go. Given they were slightly too large for a single mouthful, I was left like the hapless Pulp Fiction Gimp.  We also received a beautiful sloppy mess of an aloo tikka chaat. A bowl of seared prawns with an intoxicating Northern Indian fragrance of raw curry leaves, mustard seeds and fresh green chilli. And, some buttery roti (for reasons unknown labelled mexi-tali on the menu) covered in unidentifiable, yet delicious curried slop.  By this point – on both occasions – we were pretty much full. And so, the mains duly arrived.  A majestic lobster splayed at the torso, spilled with flesh rendered golden by a mild, sweet, tangy sauce. It was served with fluffy rice and crunchy fresh green vegetables. It was a decadent but well judged triumph.  The lobster was delightful but sometimes the lavish choice of ingredients went too far. In an unnecessary nod to the crudely extravagant palette’s of our city’ populous, black truffle was liberally shaved on perfectly good naan bread. And, Wagyu beef – famed for its flavoursome marbling and delicate texture –is ground-up, laden with spice and grilled to grey as a kebab.  With the possible exception of the lamb shank (more Cathay business class than haute Indian), the curries were delectable. And charred salmon was plump, juicy and flavoursome.  With overlooking locations, imported London chefs and raj-era appendage, comparisons between Black Sheep Group’s New Punjab Club and Chaiwala are unavoidable. Despite Punjab Club being recently minted with a Michelin Star (honestly, how much crack were the Inspectors smoking that day) Chaiwala is, quite frankly, a much better experience. This is no more evident than with desserts.  If you are still hungry after the starters and mains (you won't be) there’s a small but perfectly formed selection of desserts. We received a house brick-portioned, albeit-cloud light spiced carrot cake, served with a heady kick of run and raisin ice cream. …Read More

It can often be difficult as a British expatriate in Hong Kong. With increasing frequency I’m reminded of my dear little island’s unsavory activity during the colonial area. In fairness, it’s not my nation’s finest hour. Heroin, smallpox and condensed milk are by no means a reasonable exchange for the plundering of 10billion square kilometers of land. The same criticism can also be levelled at our relationship with the Indian subcontinent. There is, however, one indelible saving grace; I challenge anyone to name a better cultural exchange than cricket for curry and curry for cricket. However, New Punjab Club’s interpretation of Raj-era-themed India is a timely reminder that, no matter how incredible the food, there’s a thin line between cultural homage and misappropriation of heritage. For the most part, Punjab Club gets it’s right. But the undignified fancy-dress Maharaj on the door was an uncomfortable and unnecessary start to our Punjab Club experience. Once in Wyndham Street’s hottest restaurant, we were presented with an awkward seating arrangement, a 15 minute wait for our table and a feeble attempt at a gin and tonic experience. But things got better.  Our first dish, samosa chaat, was a bowl full of obscenely good stuff. Pieces of flakey samosa lie submerged in a pond of creamy yogurt and tart tamarind. Crispy noodles, pomegranate seeds and fresh onion make cause the dish to pop, zing and sing.  The chaat gives much needed purpose to the rather lackluster butter naan. Thiswas slightly greasy but sadly not with sweet, artery-clogging butter. The dough was, well, doughy, missing the scorched blisters that should have been delivered by one of the restaurant’s two tandoori ovens. My advice would be to give one of the roti a go instead. The milk buns that accompanied the Keema Pau did have the sweet buttery taste I desired. And the spiced minced mutton of the keema was also damned good. But, not quite as good as the Bindass equivalent, that remains in my top five Hong Kong dishes. The famed lamb chop just lived up to its billing. Crumbly blackened spice and clinged to the outside of the chop. Inside the meat was bloody and succulent. It took a lot of self-control  to prevent myself from gnawing at the bone.  Upon writing this review I had to ask Mrs. A whether we had a dal dish. Apparently we did. I don’t remember it. Make of that what you will. Perhaps I was distracted by the atmosphere. What Black sheep really specializes in – more than the food even – is atmosphere. The room was buzzy, the music was cool and the staff went about their business with charm and flair.  We finished the evening with sticky toffee pudding. Now, that beautiful, sweet stodgy creation is my absolute favorite dessert bar none. But the Pubjab Club’s much lauded version was only ok. Ending on this slightly damp note perhaps left me with an unduly negative impression of New Punjab Club. I’m a massive advocate of the Black Sheep Group. No one is doing more to progress the Hong Kong dining scene than Syed Asim Hussain and Christopher Mark. But for all its plaudits, I can’t help but feel the New Punjab Club represents a slight misstep. They had the opportunity to present a truly modern interpretation of Punjabi cuisine. Instead, we have a living museum piece. This is not entirely surprising when you consider head chef, Palash Mitra, cut his teeth at Gymkhana. Gymkhana is a colonial-era-inspired Punjabi restaurant in Mayfair, frequented by British backbench politicians who delight in telling the coolies to fetch more ice while spunking their expenses on more chicken tikka masala than you can shake a peerage at.If Boris Johnson did Punjabi restaurants it would probably feel a little like the Gymkhana. Punjab Club isn’t quite in that realm, but it gets a little too close for comfort.…Read More

A four-day staycation in Sai Kung with parents in tow demanded an authentic lazy Susan seafood experience. So, we took a table Chuen Kee – one of the seemingly identikit restaurants on the harbour front  and ordered a mountain of prawns, clams, grouper and squid. Now, there are a number of implicit rules you should follow when dining in “lazy Susan” restaurants. Top of that list is never, ever, for pain of death, look into the kitchen. You cannot unsee the sights. There’s usually always an elderly gentleman in white wellington boots and Beijing bikini hawking up a greeny and flinging it towards a waiting plate of food. So, in a city in which food hygiene is considered somewhat of an inconvenience, it’s reassuring to see that the key ingredients on Sai kung’s Seafood Street is fresh – albeit stressed – and in full view. Although in the back of your mind you know they’ve had more manhandling and Airmiles than timeworn air stewardess, the fact the prawns were splashing about pretty much ensures good eating. I had asked for them to be fried with garlic but, whether by incompetent luck or deceitful judgement, they arrived having had just a simple steaming. This really is the only way to serve good prawns. And these were bloody good prawns. Ripping off the head, wiping away the snot-like substance from the neck and dunking the naked body in some light soy sauce was wonderfully satisfying. The salt and pepper squid was soft and succulent and the small clams were sweet and savoury. The only real shortcoming was the pitiful amount of gloopy black bean sauce the clams should have been swimming in. We finished with a small steamed Grouper. Grouper is not a delicate fish but the white meat slid easily away from the bones on account of it’s perfect cooking. The chef had kindly make a little insertion to allow for easy extraction of the cheeks (the tastiest part of any animal). This small, considerate act characterised our evening.Service and attention to detail exceeded my – albeit relatively low – expectations. If I’m perfectly honest, I’ve previously been a little underwhelmed by Sai Kung’s seafood restaurants. Like many a gweilo, my experience of Sai Kung dining is limited to summer evenings after sun drenched days at the beach. Dinner is usually taken during that disorientating transition between crippling inebriation and crippling hangover; post-junk when day morphs into night, pleasures morphs into pain and an affable English gentleman morphs into an obnoxious toerag. As such, it’s not surprising that I’ve never found the experience in any of the harbourfront seafood restaurants to be particularly memorable. But this time was different. There were finger bowls (with lemon), happy attentive staff who delivered ice cold Tsing Tao and fresh chopsticks the second they were needed (which, owing to my parents chopstick ineptitude, they frequently were). How the restaurant calculate the bill is a mystery, perhaps even to themselves. But one cannot grumble too much when the pile of seafood carcases at the end of the meal measures several inches high. …Read More

Paying a visit to the bathroom in a 1990’s British household often felt like taking a trip to the nautical love nest of Laurence Llewelyn Bowen and Captain Birdseye. For reasons unknown, the trend of ocean themed bathrooms transcended the lower and upper middleclass. Ceramic fish swam upon cobalt blue walls; buoys, anchors and oars were propped on whitewash linoleum and cracked seashells were in constant battle with the steep sided bathtubs. Exactly the same interior design greeted us at lunch last Saturday. With the name, décor and vista of mega tankers leaving a swell of pollutants in Repulse Bay, The Ocean is at pains to let you know it’s a seafood restaurant.  Visiting on a Saturday lunchtime, the price of the set menu borders on reasonable. Mrs A and I both opt for it and in no time at all a deep fried oyster ball is sitting in front of us. The wee morsel burst with the structural integrity of a cheese puff, releasing a mild oyster liquor. A very nice start indeed. A lovely refreshing little dish of asparagus, burrata and foam was next. But then began a less welcome theme. Buckwheat. To the uninitiated, buckwheat is a grain that looks like rat droppings and tastes like a hoppy ale. It first made its presence known in the bread, then the butter, then a langoustine dish and then the desert. One can only assume the kitchen had a tub of the stuff nearing its sell-by date. The next dish of cauliflower, sea urchin and squid ink was wasted on me. The flavour of the two fishy ingredients are too strong for my palette and the delicate cauliflower ended up being lost in a sea of black and brown mucus.  However, the ingredients of the next dish of langoustine, black pudding and beetroot really are to my taste. The langoustine was succulent and sweet, the boudin noir had the luscious consistency of wet mud and the sharp beetroot cubes gave the dish real bite. Expectations of seafood are very different in Asia and Europe and I often find myself hankering for clean Atlantic fish and French culinary methods – where quality trumps quantity and you don’t need sharp elbows to get to the front of the all you can eat seafood buffet. At the Ocean, with a little squinting and sun-drunk imagination I can just about picture myself dining cliff side in the Cote D'Azur. Alas, Mr and Mrs Clooney weren’t feeding raw shrimp into each other’s moist lips. We had to make do with the lone son of a factory owner shovelling delicate oysters into his ample mouth with all the refinement and enjoyment of colonoscopy examination. Our fellow diner notwithstanding, the next dish delivered the clean Breton refinement we craved. Monkfish, gnocchi, seaweed, audouille crisps and a meaty pâté substance was a triumph of perfectly balanced flavour and texture.  My second (optional) main failed to live up to the previous. The combination of lobster, pork head and curry sauce was unbalanced and overcooked and I was left trying to discreetly pull strings of lobster meat from my teeth. Olivier Bellin’s Gallic patience would no doubt be tested at the treatment of his signature creation. But that’s the risk you take opening a restaurant six-thousand miles from home. The Ocean made a few waves upon opening two years ago largely thanks to its Michelin patron, but only a ripple of noise remains. One problem with pseudo-celebrity chefs is their elusiveness. With multiple restaurants on multiple continents, preparing five covers on a Saturday afternoon in Hong Kong will not be Monsieur Bellin’s number one priority. On a Saturday lunchtime you don’t get the head chef. Based on the lobster, I’m not entirely sure you get their deputy… or their deputy’s deputy.We returned to The Ocean’s adjoining sister restaurant a fortnight after our initial lunch. We enjoyed a dozen unadorned oysters and moule mariniere. Both dishes were as sweet, salty and delicate as my new-born daughters tears. My recommendation is therefore to forgo the Ocean and stay at the lighthouse.…Read More

My first child is due in a week or so. All my friends who have successfully procreated wax lyrical about the unbridled emotion and incomparable joy of new fatherhood. “You can’t imagine how incredible it is,” they proclaim. “It’s unlike anything you’ll every experience,” they soppily disclose, as wayward tears fall into their Asahi. Obviously, none of them have eaten at Frantzen’s Kitchen. By some margin, Frantzen’s is the finest meal I’ve had in Hong Kong. The titillating perfection damn near brought a tear to this contemptuous critic’s eye. The dishes are complex in flavour but elegant in construction. Over bloody good gin and tonics (so good were the Hernö G&Ts we felt no need to move on from them throughout the evening) we dissected the annotated illustrations of each Nordic delight on the menu. The menu is split into ‘snacks’ (these are essentially amuse bouche with a hefty price tag), ‘to begin’ (starters) and ‘to be continued’ (you guessed it, mains). In true countdown style, we were advised to have two from the top, one from the middle and one big one. My first snack, the Sweedish Sushi was simply angelic. I popped it whole in my mouth and my head began to swim. Frozen liver delivered a velvety smoothness, which melted into the dry spongy white moss. A rich slither of roe deer lay akimbo, loosely fixed by earthy cep mayonnaise. Despite being $80 for a single mouthful, the dish was worth every penny.In a departure from the robust black truffle that typically adorns the signature dish of French Toast, we were served Italian summer truffles. These melt-in-the-mouth slithers of light, white leaf were infinitely superior, beautifully matching the 25year old balsamic vinegar and not overpowering the lightly burnt bread. The 63.4°c cooked oyster was very much enjoyed by a 38.2 week pregnant Mrs. A and the Chawanmushi (an unlikely orgy of cauliflower, herring, caviar, fermented mushroom juice and thyme) drew equally rave reviews.In a restaurant scene increasingly drawn to fuss and whimsy, Frantzen’s décor is sleek and sophisticated and draws a sleek and sophisticated crowd. Our own sleek and sophisticated foursome sat around the bar-cum-kitchen, basking in the glow of a small grill that lightly blew the heavenly aroma of truffle.All around us emasculated Vikings went about their business with a slight air of arrogance and a great deal of expertise. What proficiency these men – and they are all men – lack in raping and pillaging, they more than make up for with an unnatural capability in infusing, foaming and curing. These skills are no more evident than with my velouté starter. Almond milk swam with onion puree and was quietly punctuated by a light liquorish cream. This elegant soup was essentially a bowl of lacy liquid love. In appropriate fashion the whole lot glided down my throat faster than you could say loose-lipped Linda Lovelace.My steamed turbot main lasted just as long. Woody pine shoots and fragrent peas, asparagus and herbs provided an elegant chorus that allowed the robust fish to sing. Once again, the pork belly, cod and lamb dishes left my fellow diners with a smirk as wide as my own. Of course, no one should be surprised that the first international outpost of one of Europe’s top chefs is very good. However, the extent to which Björn Frantzén wipes the floor with Messrs’ Ekkebus, Robuchon and Ducasse is somewhat surprising. I rounded of my meal with the tyme icecream, tomato marmalade and meringue. The sweet taste left by raw bee pollen was the perfect end to the evening.  Frantzen’s Kitchen is why we eat out. Completely original, refreshingly authentic and, above all, immensely enjoyable. My child has a lot to live up to. …Read More

Everyone should have a neighbourhood restaurant – somewhere they are recognised, accommodated andtolerated.Second Street Comfort Food is mine. Despite being a sanctuary for my building’s dishevelled middleclass, middle-aged, middleweight men and their offspring’s terrorizing scooters, it never let’s me down. Or, it hadn’t until recently. Lately, our Friday night table has been reserved by offer-chasing skinflints. The majority of diners now arrive via the discount app, Time-Eat. Such apps are a scourge on dining, reducing the selection of a restaurant to an autistic assessment of price. As a result, the joy of food is reduced to a dispassionate ingestion of sustenance and – with a guarantee of patronage – restaurants churn-out high carb, low price patas bravas. Like sweaty Germans annexing sunbeds in a second rate Thai resort, Second Street’s new diners are not concerned that they’re defiling the aesthetics and atmosphere of the place I hold dear.So, I’m in search of a new haunt and I’m determined not to walk more than twenty yards from my front door.Brut! by Pata Negra House, the new Second Street tapas restaurant looks perfect. In the short time since it’s opening, Brut! has enjoyed rave reviews from friends and neighbours alike. So, my Second Street drinking posse and I take one of the high tables on Wednesday evening. The interior is small, dark and sexy. Though, the atmosphere is anything but. It’s lively, happy and inviting with an air of organised chaos. Fleetwood Mac provides the backdrop around which the wonderful staff perform energetic explanations of the wine and food menus (side note: I don’t think I’ve ever had a bad experience in a restaurant playing Fleetwood Mac).A wide selection of cocktails and organic wines are scribbled on the walls. We are happily upsold a very quaffable bottle of red. I couldn’t tell you what it was – the explanation was fired at us like a gatling gun of superlatives – but the bill reminds me it’s the better part of $400. We enjoy a few of them.Truth be told, having walked past Brut many times since it’s opening, I was expecting the sophisticated, lively atmosphere. However, what I wasn’t expecting was the completely original dishes. The menu has obviously been put together with a great deal of care, built around carefully sourced ingredients and unexpected pairings.We started off with the Baby Buns of the Day. It would be both accurate but also grossly unfair to call these pulled-beef sliders (anything ‘pulled’ ordescribed as a ‘slider’ should only ever be delivered by scantily clad girls in orange hot pants). And indeed, watching the owner try to explain our dishwithout using the words was the culinary equivalent of the parlour game taboo. A rich dollop of slow cooked beef, roast tomato and pickled gherkin were sandwiched between perfectly toasted brioche buns. Sliders they were, albeit very good sliders. We needn’t have worried that our opening dish was a little prosaic as the next two were unexpected and delightful.The first was milky mozzarella with rich, acidic black olive tapenade and piquant deep fried enoki mushrooms.The second was pureed eggplant and pickled vegetables. The eggplant babganoosh had a morish weapons-grade smokiness. To stand up to eggplant’s robust flavour, the veg needed to deliver a sharp acidic judder, akin to your testicles breaking the surface of a hot bath. Alas, they had a mild, raw flavour which was lost upon any contact with the eggplant. Our main source of protein was Iberico Secreto, a slightly chewy, beef-like cut of pork neck, served pink. It delivered a rich gamey flavour, lifted beautifully by a sweet roast pepper sauce.A Roquefort mac and cheese was appetising but unremarkable.We rounded off our meal with a plate of cheese. Disappointingly, we received three types of Manchego, which were all too similar in taste and texture. We all really enjoyed our meal at Brut! But, with a little distance and digestion (metaphorically speaking), the dishes don’t quite hang together and combine to a sum greater than the parts. The heavy mac and cheese for example, felt at odds sat next to a fluffy plate of mozzarella. However, Brut! has really admirable convictions and with a little refinement I think the menu will match the exceptional quality of the experience.One of the prerequisites of a neighbourhood restaurant is the availability of a table. I see this as one of the few barriers to Brut! becoming my new neighbourhood restaurant.…Read More