GRACE AND FLAVOUR

Grace Dent looks on the sunny side at The Good Egg The one-page menu reads like a bawdy love letter that hopes to get my knickers off, succeeding shortly after the Dak Dak salad with pine nuts and pomegranate

I’m as perplexed as you when it comes to why the word ‘egg’ has cropped up in several London restaurant names over recent months. Firstly, Bad Egg — Neil Rankin’s brunch spot in Moorgate — followed by Soho House group’s Egg Break in Notting Hill. Awful name. Sounds like a bowel complaint. Then, in recent weeks, The Good Egg, a pop-up in Stoke Newington, which has opted to stay permanently, well, erect. This is a good name. I can think of no more glowing shorthand for a person than ‘they’re a good egg’.

But why the sudden egg-citement? Eggs are the least glamorous of all earthly foodstuffs. In fact, the mere act of consuming one requires subtle effort to overlook what it actually is and from where it plopped. Also, promising eggs to customers is a risk as there is clearly a dearth of chefs within the M25 who can poach one. ‘Oh joy,’ I cry at numerous fur coat, no knickers brunch joints across London. ‘Another tepid egg that was two-thirds poached at 6am and thrown back in boiling water for 20 seconds just now!’ The Good Egg circumnavigates this by not making a huge fuss of eggs at all on its tantalising all-day menu. There was definitely a chopped boiled one lurking in the sabih — an Iraqi fried aubergine pita, which arrived with house pickles and tiny pots of green, well-seasoned zhoug and a mild mango amba. There’s also a fried egg on the signature burger, which is a plaited challah bun laden with house-cured pastrami, pink pickled onions and cheese and a beef and bone marrow patty.

For me the one-page menu reads like a bawdy love letter that hopes to get my knickers off, succeeding shortly after the Dak Dak salad with pine nuts and pomegranate, just prior to the description of the Za’tar buttermilk fried chicken with chilli honey. You had me at beets, dill and poppy seeds. One of The Good Egg’s team, Oded, baked for Ottolenghi and there are definite delicious echoes of this here, mercifully without the nosebleed-inducing price tags.

One of my biggest London foodie joys of 2015 has been the rise and reformation of Middle Eastern dining: at Berber & Q in Haggerston, Black Axe Mangal in Islington, Oklava in Shoreditch and now at The Good Egg in Stokey where the slow-roasted Persian brisket arrives with a plump pita to mop up the sauce, which is laced with pickled mushrooms.

Not everything at The Good Egg is a triumph: a thunderous whole roast cauliflower with tahini lacked smokiness or any specific oomph, even if it looked glorious, and the cocktails are potent day-dissolvers rather than anything perfectly hewn. Many of the dishes were in need of a more boisterous approach to herbs and seasoning. They may be holding back so as not to frighten jelly-elbowed Stokey folk and their tousle-haired, cello-hoisting, dust-allergic children. But to me, the more of those who clear off for polenta cake at The House at Clissold Park the better. On my return to The Good Egg I’ll definitely reorder the bold NYC deli-influenced trout and whitefish croquettes, then the Persian brisket with a side of purple sprouting broccoli with tahini. I’d indulge in another one or two glasses of the Organic Petit Mas Sinen. This time I would refuse to share my pudding, an excellent, unusual chocolate mousse zinging with fresh cardamon. I made that mistake the first time and quickly saw my error as it vanished into a rival gob. And most importantly, I’d double-check when leaving the house that I’d ordered my Uber to The Good Egg and not Bad Egg, to avoid doing another en-route U-turn. Imagine if I were all the things I am and also remotely intelligent. Now that would be terrifying.