Restaurants James Pembroke
I HAVE always wanted to know what the renowned Roman dish of dormice in honey tasted like. Now I know, albeit without the honey but with the fur, thanks to a sawdust-dry pork bap outside Twickenham stadium. This doesn’t remotely connect with my decision to have lunch at Clos Maggiore. I just desperately needed to advise you all to eat before you go to Twickers. However, nothing could have compensated me more for that assault on my saliva glands. Clos Maggiore should be England’s entry in a romantic restaurant world cup tournament. We’d win hands down: Japan wouldn’t mount a surprising challenge; New Zealand wouldn’t qualify, and South Africa would be banned for the remainder of the century. The main conservatory dining-room, festooned with flowers, is a cross between Titania’s bower and Kew Gardens, its epicentre a dramatic stone fireplace into which Byron would have hurled laudanum-laced glasses of port before seducing local girls. Even though I lunched with James and Anna, for whom I have no romantic inclinations, I couldn’t help feeling one could kick-start even the most unimagined of relationships
there. If you have anyone in mind, take them for the two-course lunch which includes a half-bottle of wine for just £24.50. The food is excellent (Anna and I had succulent roast salmon; James had perfect lamb cutlets) and the service full-on.
After our sortie to Paris in June was cut short by tyre-burning French lorry drivers, The Oldie held the second part of its annual works outing in Whitstable last month. Views of Montmartre were traded for those of the Isle of Sheppey. After sauntering down the pretty high street, we arrived at the Royal Native Oyster Stores, and I bought two dozen oysters for our staff of eleven to eat on the beach. Sadly, there were only two other takers: the editor and books editor. Jeremy Lewis, the leading refusenik, told me he had never recovered from a surplus of bivalves in the 1980s, which left him feeling as if he had silver bullion lying in his stomach. Why are we so nervous of oysters? At £3 a pop, expense is a good enough reason. All change since Sam Weller observed that ‘poverty and oysters always seem to go together’. In 1851, Henry Mayhew interviewed a shellfish street-vendor for his work London Labour and the London Poor, who sold oysters for a penny a piece. Ten years later, following the pollution of the oyster beds that lined our coastline, they were sixpence each, and have overtaken inflation ever since.
I had read many rave reviews of The Sportsman, at nearby Seasalter. I had imagined a slick minimalist restaurant with arrogant, minimally dressed waiters. Stephen Harris, the chef-owner, triumphs in this wonderfully unpretentious Shepherd Neame boozer. A former history teacher, he is the classic amateur-turned-professional, delivering dishes only an amateur would cook because he knows what we amateurs want to eat. I had ray, rarely available away from this part of the coast, which was a vast improvement on skate. We were all enraptured. The bread alone is easily worth the eighty-minute train journey from Victoria. The only cloud was the taxi driver’s revelation that Janet Street-porter and Greg Wallace are regulars.
Clos Maggiore, 33 King Street, London WC2E 8JD; www.closmaggiore.com; 0207 379 9696. Lunch for £29.50 for three courses including half a bottle of wine. The Sportsman, Faversham Road, Seasalter, Whitstable, Kent CT5 4BP; www.thesportsmanseasalter.co.uk; 01227 273370. £45 for three courses including half a bottle of wine.