When: 3/12/14
A break from music because, if music be the food etc, then surely the reverse must also be true. And it isn't every day (yet) that my boy is running his own kitchen and bistro in a London boozer. Social Meat Club is a new venture, born out of the Brook Green Market & Kitchen in Hammersmith: british meat cooking with a definitively scandi bent, think Nobo doing a BBQ in your own garden. Or your corporate function. That's the deal really, chef for business where you want him, except for November and December he has set up pans at the Sun &, as part of their regular revolving pop-up of gastro-treats. Even in this short window he has caught the attention of many of the capitals intrepid food bloggers, grabbing also a mentioning last saturdays Guardian. I had been literally drooling for weeks in anticipation of this one.......
Definitely a train day, it was chilly as we stood shivering at Lichfield Trent Valley station. (Where's that much missed coffee van when you need it!?) Thankfully no leaves on the track meant we were tramping the streets of Soho less than 2 hours later, searching for the Crown, to meet big sis and Martin, there too for the occasion. Only time for a swift one and round the corner for 2 pm it was.
Small by London standards, the Sun & is in 2 parts, a compact bar and a side arm of bistro; roughly 10 tables set out with plenty of room for hungry punters. A warning about the chef's sausage greets all through the portals. (You can take the boy out of etc etc.) It wasn't long before Matt (Young) bounced downstairs to meet us, to tell us of his plans, a special bijou tasting menu being the order of our day.
Settled at our table, with precautionary Shiraz and Sauvignon Blanc on hand, the feast began. First off was his feature dish of home cured and wood smoked salmon, a flaky explosion of flavours corralled into place by wafer thin radish on a toasted sourdough base. This was swiftly followed by delicately soft medallions of rare venison, juniper aromas wafting through it perfectly, complemented by a lingonberry jam. The cottage pie came next, but not quite as school dinners might define, deconstructed into a hefty chunk of ox cheek, falling slowly apart on a bed of bone-marrow mash, the textures both melting together yet discrete. Quick pause for breath and a slurp before my favourite, duck breast to die for, and I was beginning to think I might. This was widely scored the winner by all present, but not by more than a whisker. Or feather. And still the food kept coming, mostly presented on wooden platters to preserve the rustic vibe. I confess my taste buds were beginning to wilt under the assault, so all I recall of the last main course was that is was lamb and that it was luscious. Thus it was a wake-up that the much needed thunderbolt of the fabled Nduja scotch (quails) egg came as "pudding", soft cooked yolks being challenged, in a good way, by the spicy cured meat mince surrounding. Phew! That was it. Whilst desserts are available, we were pogged and some.
It seemed only reasonable to buy the chef a Laphroaig, as he came to join us, Martin and I having one, well 2, ourselves. Photos aplenty and plans for the New Year and we each toddled off to our trains, via the delights of Covent Garden, busked by a string quintet so lively they were sweating in the freezing twilight. Home, full bellies and bed.
(P.S. Those of a delicate nature, offended by all this flesh should note there are further alternatives to these carnal treats, mussels and (mu)shrooms proving popular options on a changing and evolving menu.)
