GRACE AND FLAVOUR

Grace Dent feasts on monsters of the deep at

Another week, another dinner date, this time in Spitalfields at the latest outpost of seafood specialists the Wright Brothers. I’m going mainly because David Cook, once of 40 Maltby Street, is there — a London gem of which mere mention makes its regular clientele’s eyes swirl with glee before they beg you never to write about it. Sorry, I cannot: 40 Maltby Street is wonderful. And I wanted a little slice of this in Spitalfields, where Wright Brothers has recently appeared, tucked away in the corner of the indoors market hall. The gentrification of Spitalfields has been such a roaring commercial success that weekends there are now as untenable for the proper Londoner as Camden Lock or Oxford Circus.

Yet I will never begrudge London’s growth or change. And, hooray, now Spitalfields boasts a giant Diner if one likes cheese, or fries, or maybe cheesy fries. And there’s a Wagamama, too — only sociopaths don’t like a Wagamama — plus a Giraffe, for those poor sods who chose not to use contraception. And all this overlooked by the gorgeous restored Hawksmoor masterpiece Spitalfields church, which I once wandered into some years ago in search of a lovely stiff C of E communion service and ended up in a regeneration-friendly Christian pop extravaganza that led to me to renounce Christ entirely and embrace Our Dark Lord Satan. Spitalfields on Tuesday night, however, was a wholly subdued affair, aside from the odd Jack the Ripper tour lurking around listening to tales of gynaecological horror with glee. Wright Brothers, too, was rather dead, in spite of a manager sort who was batting away walk-ins willynilly due to it being ‘rush hour’. ‘Darling,’ I wanted to say, ‘You are virtually empty. Sell them a bottle of plonk and let them supply you some ambience.’ Wright Brothers — as an entity — isn’t quite sure what it is yet. I arrived to an empty maître d’ stand, no greeting and vague bemusement at my claim of a booking, but then found it remarkably easy to blow £150 in under an hour on a few langoustines, a bottle of fizz and some fish.

She is worth her weight in platinum. Give her a pay rise or let another restaurant steal her soon. I ordered a portion of excellent crab croquettes — tiny hot bombs of crustacean glee — and some large deep-fried breaded olives stuffed with anchovy and pepper. Both very good. ‘Please keep this coming,’ I remember mumbling.

My friend arrived slightly late but in time to catch me with one paw in a finger bowl inhaling some fabulous thick, warm chunks of salmon on a bed of mustardy fresh celeriac and a plate of comically large grilled and halved langoustine. This is By this point a tremendous domestic incident was unfolding behind me. A goblin-like City boy and his estranged peroxided life partner were warring, as we could all hear, over her repeated infidelity and their child, who ‘will always be your boy no matter what!’ Whoever was in charge should have turfed them out. I ordered two puddings while contemplating the injustice of a planet where more than 9,000 creatures sat in a tank awaiting death but these two toxic spanners would breathe until their seventies.

A chocolate pot with a salted caramel base was glorious, and then a large wobbly panna cotta-style pudding with rhubarb and pomegranate served to remind me why these two seemingly similar fruits are rarely viewed on one plate. I paid up quickly and left informing the staff I was leaving as ‘that pair shouting in the corner are vile’. But there was no one in charge so it didn’t really matter.