THE CAFE NEXT DOOR
In our pursuit of the new, we overlook neighbourhood restaurants under our noses. Let’s reclaim our local gems, says food writer Sue Quinn
Food writer Sue Quinn celebrates the neighbourhood restaurant
It was a spontaneous date night. My husband and I had nabbed our favourite table: the comfy banquette with a view into the kitchen. The lights were low, with pools of candlelight to eat by, and there was no loud music – just the burble of happy diners. We both had beef cheek stew, cooked so long and slow we could eat it with a spoon. There was something rich and chocolatey for pudding, and a little plate of cheese that just turned up because Josh, our waiter, thought we’d like it. We had a second bottle of wine, because it was so delicious and reasonably priced, and there was no costly cab ride home. This is because our lovely and memorable evening was spent at The Larder House, a restaurant at the end of my street.
Now, I’m not monogamous when it comes to eating out. I can be seduced by sparkly new dining rooms and freshly minted menus. I respect the work that goes into Instagrammable dishes prettified with micro flowers and dots of sauce. And I can manage – if I must! – to force down a 10-course, Michelin-star tasting menu now and then. But, to be honest, my favourite place to eat is The Larder House, nestled on the high street between a bank and a hairdresser. It has all the qualities I prize in a restaurant: it regards food as a pleasure, not an opportunity to show off; the atmosphere is relaxed and convivial; and staff always seem genuinely pleased to see you.
I can turn up, as I often do, in my Pilates kit, no make-up, hair a sweaty bird’s nest – and no one bats an eyelid. My go-to weekday lunch is a hearty bowl of ham hock soup with home-made bread for £6.50. And the Sunday roast is excellent – I opt for the slow-cooked lamb shoulder with a mountain of veg (a bargain at £16). I love the old-style candles on the tables that make the dining room glow, the wine list that’s delicious but unpretentious, and the fact the food isn’t plated with tweezers. Everything is cooked in a wood oven, without a foam or smear in sight.
On Sundays, when the place is buzzing with happy, full-bellied patrons and it seems like the whole neighbourhood has piled in for the afternoon, I can’t think of a more desirable place to eat. It’s like lunching in the square of a European village, surrounded by children, friends and amiable strangers.
Good neighbourhood restaurants know they have to keep locals happy, because they rely on them to return. Mine holds brilliant street parties for the community and special feasting nights because, well, the owner believes food and drink should be fun. (I once had such a jolly time, I stumbled out a little tipsy and forgot to pay my bill. But they didn’t mind – they knew they’d see me again soon.)
My local reminds me a bit of the places my parents would take me and my siblings when we were kids: somewhere small, probably in a residential street, that served nice, simple food. It would never have occurred to them to schlep across town for the latest in ‘concept’ dining. But eating out is so complicated now. For many people, it’s a Bucket List Challenge that involves ticking off every new opening before the paint has dried, rarely visiting more than once. Haven’t tried that foraged huckleberry pie yet? Or those 72-hour slow-roasted cows’ udders? Cue pitying tilt of the head by on-trend friends and colleagues who’ve beaten you to it. Again.
I know I’m lucky. Not everyone has The Larder House at the end of their street. But many people do; these places can be hiding in clear sight, unnoticed in our endless pursuit of the new. So, next time you leave the house and walk past that bistro that feels like it’s been part of your neighbourhood for ever, but you’ve never tried it – why not step inside? Our dine-out culture would be stronger and lovelier if we learnt to love our neighbourhood places, and returned to them again and again. The good ones deserve for us to love them.