Restaurants: the twisted Good

With its urban-cool interior and rustic cuisine of the Crooked Boho London is now at the best of his knowledge

Whizzy the bells and whistles-site for the Crooked Well, a fancy new pub in Camberwell South London, which was previously a French gaff and before that an old drunkard, you learn a lot about the place. Under each of the entries on the index is a single verb Under "Menu", for example, it is called "food". Under "Contact", it says "Talking". Under "About Us", it says, "Knowing".

They could no longer directly to the last. It is to know something, in fact, on the Crooked Well, a feeling that they aligned their product with laser-guided precision. I threw up the pace of my last words on Scarborough, the only rude about places outside of London, while ignoring the complexity of the districts directly in front of my nose. Well, it could be some pubs closer to my nose hairs than this joint, a mile from my house and easy to remember the bitter contradictions of the village of London. About a hundred yards from the front door is full-on Camberwell with its vivid, sometimes brutal, down-at-heel street scene. It is scuffed, inner-city London. Sometimes it is fabulous, sometimes it is intimidating and a right old pain in the ass.

The Crooked Well, just around the corner, middle class Boho London, as if what was in the neighborhood did not exist. The night we were there a vividly painted double-decker bus, part of a project, with the grand old man of British pop art, Peter Blake, was parked outside. Finally, Blake himself was sitting at a table in the group a few of his works recently donated to the pub. As perfectly boho middle class, we all made a point not to notice. The hotel management was cautious about this event in advance on their website flag, as they are their jazz nights, their bring-your-own-wine nights, their fish and chips on Fridays, their coffee in the morning and her commitment to British food . The personnel met and / or worked variously in Babylon, Petrus, Le Gavroche and the Hotel and Bistro du Vin group. So this is all that shine and polish up some distilled defiant – knowingly – casual.

In most cases it works. Some of the pricing is very keen indeed. A changing court as a soup and bread costs listed only £ 4.50. The night we were there it was a big bowl of gazpacho – with spread to the side to a piece of sourdough toast with carefully selected white crabs – British schmitish. The soup can with a little more of a kick did, but even so it was a bit butch summer in a bowl. Even £ 7.50 for a plate of very good smoked salmon, with rounds of sweet, crunchy cucumber and halved boiled quail eggs scattered, does not seem outrageous.

The network – a rib-eye with Café de Paris butter, duck confit with chorizo and chickpeas, sole with beans, anchovies and capers – have a familiar urban-rustic ambience. They send out their savory ingredient, cosmopolitan worldview with every dot and comma. This is food for the Londoners were the places. More interesting are the dishes for two people: a whole poached sea bass with fennel and samphire for example, or – the one we chose – a rabbit with bacon cake.

It came in a fiercely hot dish, the golden puff pastry lid and inflated. It looked right, and was. Inside, the hare had been braised until all muscle memory had collapsed and it was just thick strands woven through with hunks of meat of salty bacon and soft as pearl onions. A smear of Dijon mustard and the work was done. This is one of those dishes that are part-time kitchen restaurant serves very good method. Make the rabbit mix long before the time and then just over the dough shell shock if the order comes in.

The same system works less well with desserts, all a bunch of things just waiting to be seated, gilt, like party guests who were not aware of each other. A nice enough flourless almond cake, a pleasant panna cotta elderberries, gooseberries and a bunch of sitting on a plate, as if arbitrarily put together a buffet. Similarly, a white chocolate parfait was vaguely useful to introduce a strawberry compote. Then they served us under the gun, when our babysitter called us home because we played on the youngest. (Dan, if you do ever again …) The fact is that while I may be the most important comedy shows of central London-S-hipsters, everyone lives within striking distance of one such pub food very much, in fact, it have. That's exactly what I am.

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Submited at Wednesday, August 17th, 2011 at 9:00 am on Restaurant by admin
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