London Diaries: Odds and ends

Eating the parts you don't usually, at St. John

Abandon all hope, vegans who enter here.

It doesn’t say that on the menu at St. John, but it might as well. It does say Mobile phones are not permitted in the dining room, and, in bold capital letters, NOSE TO TAIL EATING.

Mobile phones are not permitted, at least to call your parents or your other annoying relatives. Pictures to post on social media? That’s another story. It’s not original to say it’s been a tough couple of years for restaurants, even those of the Michelin Star-variety.

But what about nose to tail eating? Well, picture all of the bits of the animal even the most devoted meat eater would normally throw in the bin: offal, bone marrow, pig’s cheek, calf’s liver, blood pudding. You name the odd or end, St. John will probably cook it.

It’s not an accident that it’s situated on St. John Street in Farringdon, right next to Smithfield meat market.

---

Set up by a group of people including Fergus Henderson, the chef you might have seen hanging out with Anthony Bourdain and the like, St. John is now nearly 30 years old, and still a must for any London foodies.

I went on a warm June afternoon for the best late lunch of my life.

“They also have the lobster,” the waiter says, grinning, crouching to his knees at our table, talking as if we’ve just been having a long conversation. I don’t go for the lobster, instead it’s the ox tongue.

What does ox tongue taste like? I’ve had ox tail before, tender and good in a stew, now for the other end. It tastes like corned beef. That sounds like an insult, almost certainly, but it’s not. It’s incredible.

---

For the main: the offal with bacon and mash. Out comes a plate full of organs. Possibly a kidney in the mix, some liver? A piece of bacon lays over it that is so thick I could use it as a pillow. Then there’s the actual pillow, the creamy mash potato.

I could have eaten plates of the stuff. I want to wake up every morning and have St. John’s bacon in a sandwich, I want the mash potato for every dinner. Offal, organs, sure, I’ll have some for lunch, make some enemies in the office canteen.

Sometimes fine dining isn’t worth the cost, all of your money has gone on gaudy décor and fancy roof tiles to put your tiny portion of food on. Not at St. John. You exit the restaurant tottering, unsteady on your feet, a belly full of meat.

The food is the star. The dining room is sparse, all white walls, a wood floor, minimal fuss. The waiters are dressed in whites, they look like they themselves are off to throw some kidney in the frying pan.

Mine isn’t, a bill arrives. More than a Nando’s, sure, but you’re not likely to get something as pedestrian as a chicken breast at St. John. If I’m ever a rich man I’ll eat there every day.

As long as I never go vegan.

---