Seafood so good I’m shell-shocked!
ONE of my favourite restaurants on Earth is Cervejaria Ramiro, a s mall beer and seafood place in one of the less salubrious parts of Lisbon. The room is eternally packed, with a queue forever snaking out the door, and winding down the street. Football roars from the televisions, the tablecloths are made from paper, while the gleaming steel-clad kitchen is open for all to see.
At one end, there’s a vast tiled mural depicting a seabed, crawling with all manner of crustacea. While at the side, the real things, mainly furious- l ooking l obsters, strut around their tanks, awaiting their bubbling fate. You catch the eye of one of the white-shirted waiters and order a pile of sweet, delicately striped shrimp. And a pair of vast caribinero prawns, the size of my fist, with magnificently rich flesh. Once devoured, you suck the creamy, faintly fetid gunk from their head, before moving on to prehistoric-looking gooseneck barnacles, and tiny clams in garlic sauce.
For pudding, a prego roll, fillet steak cooked rare and slathered with pungent mustard and chilli oil. Sublime. Like all great restaurants, Ramiro has absolute confidence in the quality of its ingredients, and absolute confidence in the simplicity of its operation. Which is why the place reminds me of Parsons, a small, square-tiled room in Covent Garden that’s equally simple, unpretentious and pretty damned splendid. Specials are scrawled on the glass, coats hung high above one’s head, and at the back there are pretty drawings of scallops, oysters, mussels and prawns. Prices are written next to the day’s availability. Down the centre, a trough filled with ice and endless wines by the glass, the choice befitting a place owned by Ian Campbell and Will Palmer, the men behind the brilliant Drop (vinous first aid: they deliver wisely chosen wines, from one bottle to as many cases as you could desire, within the hour) and 10 Cases in Drury Lane.
We sit at a small wooden table, gazing out on to the street. Space is tight, but service so charming and the atmosphere so intoxicating that you soon n cease to notice the crush. We e eat an intense smoked cod’s s roe, a dish that is ubiquitous these days, but rarely done this well. A pool of paprika-speckled olive oils lies in the middle, adding further golden succour. There are pert, beautifully cooked razor clams that made me fall in love with these beauties all over again. Not a trace of grit or rubberiness – they are as fine as I’ve eaten anywhere.
Trout tartare is clean, spicy and sharp, a lusty, palate-reviving reveille that has a glorious balance. While the steak version, one of the few meat dishes, is magnificently bosky, possessing a deep, baritone growl in contrast to the trout’s spirited yelp. Miso egg yolk further deepens its umami allure. A plump octopus limb yields lasciviously to the teeth with just the right amount of chew and char, and sits merrily upon a bed of pork-fat potatoes. Jet-black, paprika-spiked rice is topped with alabaster squid, the edible equivalent of Ebony And Ivory. But better. Obviously.
Parsons is one of those places that get everything right with the minimum of fuss and fanfare. It has an easy, unforced, no-nonsense charm, the sort of place you could wander into for a swift steak sandwich (served, like in Ramiro, as pudding) and glass of wine, or linger for a long, languorous lunch. At night, the lights are low and each dish made better still by a genuine warmth and belly-stirring hubbub.
There’s so much more I want to try. The brown crab pissaladiere, s and the lobster mash ( made with the coral and chunks of flesh), whole lemon sole, Welsh rarebit and grilled sardines.
Within months of opening, Parsons has elegantly eased into the pantheon of great London fish places, sitting alongside Scott’s, J Sheekey, Sweetings and The Oystermen. It has heart, and soul, and peerless piscine allure. The wine list is, as you’d expect, interesting and sensibly priced. Just like the food. It’s an English version of Ramiro, yet far more than mere slavering copy. Just like Brat, it’s one of those new openings that seems to have been here for years. Not so much curate’s egg, as pure Parsons’ pleasure.