Restaurants

James Pembroke

There’s nothing parents dread more than an invitation for their already-bankrupting child to join his mate for a week’s holiday in the West Indies. That longed-for weekend in Rome is immediately placed on the sacrificial altar, which is already knee-deep in the skeletons of parental joie de vivre.

My son returned from just such a wallet-shrinking trip last summer. One night, the cook had asked the boys what they would like to eat. Keen to ingratiate himself with his feeder, my son said he would love to try the truest local dish. The cook happily obliged and produced steaming bowls of pig’s-tail stew.

For Fergus Henderson, the founder of St John and high priest of nose-to-tail eating, this would have been a busman’s holiday. Twenty-four years on, St John stays nonchalantly truer than ever to its creed of eating all the bits we’ve neglected since the end of rationing.

But it’s not just the shock of seeing dried salt kid liver on the menu but his improbable pairings, in this case with radishes and boiled egg, which makes each dish an irresistible gauntlet. What better to accompany Middle White tongues than dandelion? Even A A Gill, after earlier ridiculing what he took to be affectation, willingly ate humble pie by the shovel when he confessed time and again that Fergus was the master.

The stark white walls and white paper tablecloths may ensure we aren’t distracted from the purist task ahead, but I can’t help noticing what a backdrop they give to four glasses of red wine, and how glum those glasses look when empty. They’ve thought of that, too. For a while

now, St John has had its own-label wines – all French and from small vineyards. They’re happy to open a bottle on spec, not for you to check that it isn’t corked but that you want to drink the other 70cl.

Whitstable is fast becoming Britain’s answer to Martha’s Vineyard. The town is pumping. Time was when the bar and back room at Wheelers were one’s only choice, but because a spare table at The Sportsman in nearby Seasalter is as rare as a dodgy oyster, clever chefs have realised there is plenty of business to be had from the Sportsman’s castaways, and the rents are low.

We were told to try Samphire, but the name was too annoying, so we went to tiny Harbour Street Tapas. The windows were misted up when we arrived at about 2pm, but they welcomed us in among the dogs and families. It’s bang opposite the bookshop, which only sells The Sportsman cookbook and Harry Potter.

The tapas was consistently better than any I have had in Spain, especially the tortilla, which sits around for months in Madrid. And the wine was as cheap and uplifting as the food.

The Whitstable Oyster Company’s restaurant is set in a fine building, but I’d advise sticking to the bivalves they’ve been flogging for the past 600 years. Fish without batter is still a bridge too far for many British chefs, except of course for Fergus Henderson.

St John, 26 St John Street, London, EC1M 4AY; www.stjohnrestaurant.com, 020 7251 0848; £40 for three courses

Harbour Street Tapas, 48 Harbour Street, Whitstable, Kent CT5 1AQ; www. harbourstreettapas.com; £10 a plate.