Jose's Tapas — Tom's review

Tomato bread.

Now, I'll forgive you if the above pair of common nouns doesn't instantly set your pulse racing. That's okay.

But I won't forgive you — with a steadfastness that'd make even Lucifer wince — if you go into Jose's tapas bar on Bermondsey Street, order their tomato bread, shove a chunk into your gob and don't immediately prostrate yourself at the twin altars of the Tomato and the Bread.

Jose's tomato bread is a mouth-cram of joy. It's like getting an intravenous shot of Mediterranean sunlight. It is a marriage of ur-tomato and ur-bread, beside which all other things bready and tomatoey are but anaemic pretenders.

Listen, I've kind of jumped into the middle, here, I know. (But I suspect you're familiar with this narrative technique and see it for the shameless attention-grabbing word-whoredom that it is.) But since we're here, in the middle, let's flail around a bit longer before attempting any kind of context or overview, shall we? Let's talk about the fresh green crunch of the deep-fried pedron peppers, the seared, matt delights of a flash-fried chicken liver. Let's talk about the garlicked juices of some pretty damn chunky prawns, running down your fingers.

(The juices running down your fingers, that is, not — thank the living saviour — the prawns themselves.)

What you need to know, in essence, is this: Go to Jose's. Get the tomato bread. Get sherry. Get a bunch more tapas. Probably just ask them to bring you a selection rather than trying to choose, you indecisive ditherer. Get more sherry. Get more tapas. Repeat until barely conscious/mobile.

Oh, and the other thing you need to know is — it's busy. By which I mean, rammed. Like a nightclub. But a million times more delicious than any nightclub I've ever been in. You can't book, you just turn up and try and find somewhere to squish yourself. Which took us about an hour.

But that hour was absolutely worth it.

For the tomato bread alone.

A Lesson by Jose in Food Underestimating

Now, I’m not entirely certain as to whether it was Tom or I who came up with this whole blog idea, but, it’s only our second stop, and I’m friggin’ loving it.

As I work my way from London Bridge tube station to experience the delights of a little restaurant called Jose on a corner of Bermondsey Street, I fall in love. No, not with a handsome stranger (romantic as that may have been), but with my surroundings. Cobbled streets, quirky pubs and inner-city gardens give Bermondsey an air of chic bohemia. A group of people walk past me - boys in cropped trousers and shirts buttoned to the neck, girls in fur coats, vintage dresses and laced-up heeled boots - and I know this is where all the cool kids are (obviously I am not one of them as I do indeed use the term 'cool kids'). Suddenly acutely aware of my own outfit, I spot Tom, looking rather dashing in jeans and a polo neck, and holding two designer shopping bags. Shit, I thought, he’s only bloody come prepared.

‘You’ve been shopping!’, I stated the obvious. ‘Oh yes, I love that polo neck. Don’t you look smart in your new clothes!’

‘Uh, Esther, this isn’t what I bought. I’ve always had these’.

‘Oh. Well, they’re lovely... Shall we go in?’

So in we did go. Only to be told to go out again and come back in about 45 minutes. But hey, busy is a good sign, so off we went looking for pre-tapas drinks. And we found the most fantastic cocktail bar - The Hide Bar. Like I said above, I am loving this blog-venture! Making little discoveries along the way, it really is what travel is all about. Anyway, one Ruby Red Shoes and a Classic Martini later, it was time to head back to Jose. And what a treat we had in store for us!

We had the following:

Manzanilla Pastrana £5.50

Padron Peppers £4.00

Iberico ham £9.00

Tomato bread £3.00

Tortilla £4.00

Croquetas £6.00

Lamb albondigas £5.00

Prawns, chilli £7

Chicken livers £5

Seabream £7.00

Now, of all the above, what would you say would provide the most delicious, inventive taste sensations? The sea bream? The lamb? Oh no, my naive friend. Jose has taught me this truly important lesson – never, ever, underestimate the power of ... tomato, and bread. Because, fuck! That was some damn tasty tomato, and some damn tasty bread! Okay, there was butter and garlic thrown in there, but I tell you, this place is worth a visit for the tomato bread alone. I wish I was eating some right now as I type. In fact, I have since been back to Jose, and yes, the tomato bread was still as scrumptious. (Okay, I may be milking it now, but just go, you’ll see).

What more can I say really. If you don’t mind standing while you eat (though we did get seats eventually) and being bustled a little, it’s a great little place to go for fantastic food in a fun, friendly environment for a pretty reasonable price. In terms of Spanish authenticity - well, who gives a fuck, the food is good!

So, grab that fur shawl and vintage patterned bag, and get down there. Have the tomato bread, have the peppers and have the sea bream. Feel free to comment if you hated any of these, but if you do, that’s your weird taste buds, I’m sure.

Happy eating!

Mon Plaisir — Esther's take

(Yesterday was Tom's review of Mon Plaisir; today, here's Esther's)

And so we arrive, travel weary but hungry for... well, food. And where on this hypothetical earth could our first stop be? Oh mon dieu, c’est la France! (well, Covent Garden). And the name of our first establishment? Mon Plaisir — My Pleasure.

So, first impressions. Initially, I couldn’t find the restaurant, which I believe is more testament to its modest exterior (understated but welcoming) than to my terrible navigation skills (though I will say perhaps it’s a good job this is a metaphorical trip!). The restaurant is cosy, with nooks and crannies jammed with chintz and, oddly to me but perhaps not so to the French, pictures of hens. This restaurant is not a typical imitation French restaurant where the decor feels almost forced – La Vie en Rose was not playing nor was there a heavily French-accented waiter with a moustache to greet us — it is simply French in the nature that you come in, sit down, and get on with the meal. I will say, however, the waiting staff are most definitely French — one girl didn’t have a clue what we were asking her, and did not seem to care about this. Treat that as delightfully authentic or inconvenient as you will. Mais oui, onto the food itself...

Les Hors d'Oeuvres

Rillettes de Lapin au Chablis parfume au Romarin et Baguette Toastee, £7.95
 (Potted Rabbit with Toasted Baguette)


Cassolette d'Escargots,
 Les 6 £6.95; Les 12 £13.90 (
Snails with Garlic and Parsley Butter)

This was my first time having snails, and I must say, I flippin’ loved them! Loved the texture, the taste and dipping the bread into the garlic sauce after I had gobbled up my share. Then onto the rabbit. Not so much a fan of this – rather dry and rubbery, but I’ve not had rabbit before, so perhaps that is rabbit at its best! Though I was certain I had chewed on a rubbery rabbit nail at some point... So the snails definitely won that round for me. (Now wouldn’t that be a fun game – snail vs rabbit. Obviously you would have to decide if you wanted to enlarge the snail to rabbit size, or reduce the rabbit to snail size. I think perhaps the latter would be less messy, and less nightmare inducing! But I digress...)

Les Entrees

Cuisse de Canard Confite, Coeur de Salade Frisee et Pommes Sautees au Thym, £18.95 (
Duck Leg Confit with Curly Endive Salad and Sauteed Potatoes)

Entrecote Grillée Béarnaise et Pommes Allumettes, £19.95 (
10oz Scottish Sirloin Steack with Pommes Allumettes)

Before I get onto the beef, which was the dish I ordered, I must mention the Petits Pois that we ordered as a side. Lovely, lovely, lovely! Came in a creamy sauce with bacon bits, just as my mother makes when we’re in France – bon! (Sorry, it’s hard not to throw cheesy French lines into this review!) Anyway, the beef: perhaps a little too rare for me the thicker the cut got, but superb nonetheless. And after a switch with Old Parn I got to taste the duck, which was delicious. I haven’t eaten much duck before, but this has inspired me to order it more frequently! So, for me, this round was a draw. (Hmm, cow vs duck … you know what, my money would be on the duck, whatever size reduction/increase!)

Dessert

Craquelin de fruits rouges a la creme de cassis, £6.50
 (Almond tuile, lemon cream, red fruit's compote and creme de cassis)


Vacherin glace a la vanille et aux framboises, £6.50 (Meringue with vanilla ice cream and raspberries)

Oh the deserts. Oh my, the deserts! These were amazing. If you are deciding between sharing a starter or desert, share the starter – you will want the desert completely to yourself. Though of course you should all try each other’s in the spirit of sharing … but just a spoonful!

Albeit looking remarkably like a white pooh on my dish, the meringue was perfect. That lovely balance between chewy and crispy; just beautiful. And with a passion fruit sorbet to compliment, I was one very happy, and by this point, stuffed bunny (though perhaps that’s a faux pas considering our starter?) Old Parn’s was delicious also, so I would guess we both felt we won this one. (Damn, the conceit isn’t half as interesting for this one!)

Now, leading on to topic of conversation, which really could be a blog in itself. It’s hard to summarise the twists and bends of our conversing, but highlights included:

Spy sharks, prostitutes, talking bullshit, what is the point, drugs, exes, pressure from parents, awkward mouth noises, writing for an audience, the derivation of ‘converse’, of which Old Parn provided a brilliant Latin breakdown – ‘con’, meaning with/about, and ‘versare’ – meaning to turn. Literally, to turn about with. Isn’t it amazing how a word we are so familiar with can be reinvented in a moment? Fascinating.

I’m sure I am missing some, but that is why this is a joint blog, so that Old Parn, who is by far the more experienced blogster of the two of us, can rectify any damage I may have done to his reputable blog persona! (NB: for those of you familiar with Old Parn’s blog, do not despair, my use of expletives will increase the further along we get!)

So, first review done, time now to saunter southwards to Spain!

Spy Sharks and Prostitutes: Mon Plaisir in Covent Garden (France)

So. France. What better place to begin our epic gustatory journey?

'Apparently they only have French wine here,' said Esther. 'Do you like French wine?'

Um, Esther. I have a wine blog. Would you like to reconsider your question?

In any case, Mon Plaisir in Covent Garden makes some kind of claim to be London's oldest French restaurant. But I come from Oxford, where at least four different places say they're Oxford's oldest College. So I view such claims with lofty scepticism. In any case, although it's clearly been around for a while, it's pleasantly unpretentious, with a thrown-together kind of approach to decor.

(Those who know me or have ever seen my desk will not need telling that I favour the thrown-together approach — albeit in what is arguably more literal a sense than that adopted by Mon Plaisir.)

So. Starter. The snails were nice — but over-salted, I'd say, and (honestly) not as nice as the ones I had last time I was at Pierre Victoire. Which is clearly not the oldest restaurant in anywhere. And the rabbit rillettes? Fine, fine, fine. I didn't find it earthshattering, to be honest. Though I guess the rabbit probably did. Poor bugger.

Main courses were better. E-star's steak was clearly rare, rather than the medium-rare she'd asked for. But that's okay. Because she should've asked for rare in the first place, right? I thought it was very good, crisscrossed with the magical charcoal lacings of the griddle. And confit duck. Pretty nice, pretty nice — although squatting its ducky haunches upon a rather uninspired bed of leaves.

The petits pois side dish, though, was gosh-darn outstanding. Creamy, with little bacon nuggets. Yum McYum.

Then puddings. Which were (unusually) the best part of the meal. In fact, the quality of our three courses, had they been plotted on a graph (by the kind of achingly tedious obsessive who'd think to plot such things on a graph) would have described an ascending arc.

For a start, the menu choices were genuinely interesting; not the usual tedious, predictable array of cremes brulees and tartes aux pommes. And they were well-executed, too. Even if the meringue tongues did (to the eyes of the scatological Esther) resemble delicate curlicues of turd.

And even if we were both virtually crying with laughter as I attempted to narrate a tale of inadvertent shark-murder poached from episode 138 of The Bugle (listen to it and kill yourself with mirth from 26.30 onwards).

Now. Mon Plaisir wasn't exactly cheap. I suppose there's an inevitable oldest-French-restaurant-in-London premium. So if that stuff's important to you, I guess you'll suck it up. But otherwise, I suspect you could eat just as well for a good bit less, if you're prepared to sacrifice a bit of heritage.

Me, I'd sacrifice heritage in the blink of an eye. Slap it on the stone table and give me the dagger, man.

Later, at some point as we shambled along the South Bank in our post-repast 'debrief', it struck us as a good idea to entitle this, our inaugural post, 'Spy sharks and prostitutes'. And I have honoured that inspiration.

Though I can't for the love of Christ remember where the prostitutes bit came from. Oh well.

So. Mon Plaisir. Fine, but very overpriced. Alright? That's your lot. Except for this picture of Esther. Because it made me laugh.

(Esther's account is coming tomorrow, by the by.)