Roast

Borough Market, SE1
Apparently, there’s a rumour going round that Borough Market is THE place to go for a bit of food love. Apparently, there’s stall upon stall of organic, fresh, free range, wild, and home-reared yumminess just cluttering up the place. There’s also a rumour going round that the restaurant, Roast, serves roasts. Well, who would’ve guessed?!

Places like Roast are Kryptonite to us critics. This is the kind of restaurant we usually try to avoid because our job is to lambast, shake fists and generally poke fun at lesser establishments that will probably not make it through the other side of the recession. Usually, there’s a catalogue of errors to laugh about, leaving no doubt in the mind of the reader that under no circumstances should they visit. Even if they’re drunk and it’s on the way home.

But with Roast, it’s a different story. It’s faultless. They only offer one dish and that’s roast joy, sprinkled with grated dreams and served on a bed of Ahhhhhhhhhhh. No, make that Ahhhhhhhhh to the power of Ahhhhhhhh.

This roast joy comes in a variety of shapes and sizes. There’s the modern decor which is as bright an over-achieving child and amplified by a beautiful portico that was abandoned by Covent Garden’s Floral Hall many years ago and brought to the market for only a quid.

Then there’s the unclenched weekend clientele who are far removed from the hubris of boorish City-dom during the working week. Roast is suitably for doe-eyed couples, sloshed-up birthday groups, girlie natter-thons and lazy families alike.

There’s also the view-of-St-Paul’s location, voyeuristically high above the throng of market activity, causing dinner conversations to veer wildly off into “Wow, look at the state of THAT nutter down there” every few sentences.

Added to that, there’s the high-ceiling’d, live jazz’d and child-friendly’d atmosphere keeping no track of time and generally maintaining everyone in a floating daze, welcomingly.

There’s the impeccable service which appears to be sickeningly 5-star, whichever angle you’re viewing it from.

There’s the booze which boasts a mighty tome of heaven’s treacle to devour, including the inescapable Chapel Down Bacchus Reserve (made in Kent, no less) which would probably cleanse and rejuvenate your urban weary skin if you decided to pour it over your face rather than do the sensible thing and drink it.

And then, of course, there’s the grub. Oh, the tender grub. The tender British grub. The tender British grub that is not afraid to roast any living being (if you arrive on a Monday, you can sample from the special ‘rare and native breed’ menu - Dodo? Diplidocus?). All ingredients are GB sourced, and most come directly from the market right downstairs. Starters are under strict portion control - the potted kippers are a good place to start - thus leaving room for the generous main event - the slow roasted goose leg with firm kale and adequately sized roast potatoes are complimented perfectly by the boozed-up poached pears (“Oh you do look lovely”, “Oh, that’s very kind of you to say so.”). Dessert is daring and is only avoidable if you’re able to avert your eyes as tempting glasses of rhubarb trifle or sultry Bakewell tarts are delivered to neighbouring tables.

It’s also got a cocktail bar, it’s own lift, Dyson Airblades to play with, windows as far as the eye can see, a great selection of British beers, a menu that is a bit dithering because it changes every week, and an owner who, in 2008, won Businessman of the Year and Restaurant Personality of the Year, plus claimed a spot in the Independent on Sunday’s Top 10 Restaurateurs in Britain list.

OK, OK, OK. Roast is amazing. There, I said it. Are you happy now?!

Molton House

43 South Molton Street, Mayfair W1
“The theatre is a gross art, built in sweeps and over-emphasis.”

At times like this it’s appropriate to break the glass and release an emergency quote. When the British author and playwright, Enid Bagnold, uttered the above phrase in fourteen hundred and whatever she probably didn’t have a West End socialite hangout in mind. Yet, with words like ‘gross art’, ‘sweeps’ and ‘over-emphasis’ she could’ve been describing the new members clubs, Molton House. It’s absolute design mayhem.

From the outside Molton House does a fairly good job of pretending it’s not an exhibitionist - small signage, tiny red rope, zero windows - but once (and if) you get inside, then the theatre really begins. It’s of no surprise that the biggest poser of them all, the peacock, has been adopted as the Molton House emblem.

The bite of ostentation smothers four homely floors of this Georgian building. The designers were clearly dealing with some acutely indecisive clients and, in the end, just threw together everything that B&Q could muster. Copper cladding, snakeskin, silk, peacock feathers (there it is again), leather corsets, ostrich feathers, flickering colours, darkened mirrors, scarlet hues, low lighting, gargantuan chandeliers: there was probably no other colour, material or fabric sold anywhere else in the world that day because it seems Molton House bought it all. The attention to detail even goes as far as putting sparkles INSIDE the toilet extraction fans.

The club - with house/electro/rock/but-no-RnB blaring out of the Funktion 1 sound system - leads to the cocktail bar - with its own DJ hidden in a cupboard under the stairs playing so-laid-back-it-could-be-a-spa music - which leads to the restaurant - serving what else but ‘modern European cuisine’ - which leads to the private dining/conference rooms - replete with their very own TV, wifi, stereo system, weather patterns, astrological calendar....

The drinks here are just shy of heavenly and you should feel free to say ‘Wow’ as often as you like. The specialists on the tricky side of the bar have put together a menu that is supper club flamboyant and in keeping with the venue’s decor. Classics, punches, cups, sours, flips, ‘temperance’ options, and a clever range of bitters - coriander, jasmine tea, vanilla, liquorice - created by a local hotel chef. Plus, each drink has its own receptacle, some which require flavour infusion before the drink has even been made.

Tip 1: wait for the ‘ample’ table service.
Tip 2: Do NOT ask for a Mojito. You wouldn’t ask Gordon Ramsey to cook you cheese on toast now would ya?!
Some of the highlights include the Cherry Blossom Bellini - or ‘Go-Getter’ as we’ll call it for its powers of easy drinking; the Liquorice Sazerac - the ‘Sock Blower’ for the strong buzzy feeling that arrives direct by absinthe; the signature A&A’s Negroni - a gin-based ‘Ladies Night’; the Molton Mule - ‘Summer time’ served in a twisted glass, heavy on the pineapple, strong on ginger, garnished with an odd lime dispatch; and the Don Flip - the ‘Nightcap’, a tequila and port-based end to the evening. Need to freshen up? Try a £5 latte before you go (cue Pulp Fiction style conversations about “finding out what a five pound latte tastes like”).

The people? Molton House is in the upper echelons, apparently. The membership committee contains within its serried ranks one Sex Pistol, one Queen, TWO Duran Durans, one Channel 4er, one messy bed artist, one former Mrs Law, one Kidd, one Kemp, one Cold Feet, one Blur, one Libertine, and one Imbruglia, to name but a few. Basically, you’ll need to iron a shirt. And brush your shoes.

Nick ‘Cuckoo Club’ Valentine teamed up with a former Movida GM, a former Sketch mixologist and a former Devonshire Gardens chef and created this multi-layered cake of decadence. The result is tastefully tacky and wins the 2009 Elton John Prize for Garishness hands down. But is the décor trying to over compensate for something that’s lacking? The jury is still out on that one.

The Fenitman Arms

64, Fentiman Rd SW8 1LA
Geronimo Inns: the gastro overlords of London. You don’t want to mess with them. Their gang of pubs are lurking everywhere, especially in the more decent and self-respecting communities of the capital. Easy pickings, see. They have venues stationed all over London on deserted street corners, ready to supply any unsuspecting passer-by with a quick hit of verve, sparkle or finesse. And the Fentiman Arms is one of its top henchmen.

Now clearly, there’s nothing illegal about the Fentiman Arms (that was just a metaphor), not unless it’s now against the law to make every man, woman and child who is pulled in by its force field a complete and utter satisfied customer. This is benevolent not malevolent brawn and it’s only a six hit over the boundary from The Oval’s middle stump; as long as Kevin Pietersen is batting.

The Fentiman hides its stoicism well. There you are, minding your own business, cluelessly wandering along Fentiman Street, not a care in the world, generally marveling at the quaintness of it all, when suddenly.....BAM, you’re sucked in by an overpowering lure of niceness. This ‘Arm’ of the ever-growing Geronimo empire is particularly muscular and it hides a stocky robustness within its tidy physique. Remember, the small ones are often the ones to watch out for. They pack an almighty delicious punch.

There’s classic Geronimo behaviour to be seen here. Firstly, the general managers; they must breed them at Geronimo HQ because although they all look very different, they share the common traits of extreme conviviality and a willingness to exploit the potentiality of their venue for the benefit of everyone else in the world (laurels are certainly not for resting on). Secondly, open shelves; they love em: the exclusive/inclusive expanse/cosiness they lend is peculiarly familiar throughout. Thirdly, the wine; a Master of Wine (no less) has selected a decent array straight from God’s own cellar, which includes the continually rewarding Infamous Goose Wild Rock Sauvignon from New Zealand.

You start this compartmentalised box of fun in what appears to be someone’s living room, complete with mid-battle board games and roaring open fire. It’s as though you’ve wandered in by mistake like Little Red Riding Hood and thus proceed to sit yourself down and help yourself to somebody else’s food, you teef! Only, it IS your food. The small, nee tiny, dining area at the rear separates you from the bar so as to not make it feel as though you’re eating under someone’s pint of Guinness.

Other fantastic appendages to the Fentiman’s arsenal: the garden, where picnic benches are painted with sunshine and where a full scale summer BBQ is guaranteed to break out at least three times a week; a versatile retro function room upstairs with private bar, loo and big TV where comedy, quiz or carve-your-own roast nights are available if you ask nicely; plus, benches out front for smokers and a menu that is dramatically tweaked weekly, meaning you dining habits will be somewhat on a par with your weekly dose of Lost.

Tip No.1: Yes, the standard menu is great and you wont be disappointed BUT there is a daily specials menu and they don’t call it ‘special’ for nothing. For example, the pork cheek, lentil and chorizo stew with buttered mash is both large and luscious.

Tip No.2: Opt for any starter that involves an ex-fish. Mackerel pate, smoked salmon.....No particular reason, it’s basically a flipping good way to start your meal.

Although it would appear that this establishment is mainly used by locals, it’s definitely a destination for all. If you reside anywhere south of, say, Derby, north of Bruge, west of Narnia and east of the Moon, you’ve really got no excuse for not visiting (this includes exams, weddings and personal injuries such as death).

Zizzi Notting Hill

2-6 Notting Hill Gate W11 3JE
For those of you that aren’t aware, Zizzi is not a bankrupt remnant of the former Virgin megastore empire and nor is it the latest Manchester City big league signing. What it is, however, is a fairly decent imitation of an over achieving Ask Pizza - better grades, a readiness to suck up to you and a past that probably involved some form of bullying, most likely from that girl Bella Pasta and ‘er mate Pizza Express. In fact, if Zizzi does bare a strikingly uncanny resemblance to Ask Pizza that’s because it is one; sort of. Zizzi and Ask are like the Brown and Blair of yesteryear; a brotherhood, sort of.

This branch of Zizzi is but a stone’s throw from the Notting Hill Gate tube station; as long as you have an arm like BA Baracus and the wind is particularly favourable. It’s a sad row of naffness that leads to the restaurant: shops in varieties of kebab, betting and corner, each with its own sentinel tramp stationed outside. Nevertheless, once inside the seemingly relative safety of Zizzi’s impenetrable glass force field, the outside world is mostly a forgotten hindrance or simply a conduit for bands of streaming light to enter the establishment. Zizzi is bright; squeaky bright: the cutlery has a slasher’s glint; the mirrored walls and pillars snigger at their expansive appearance; and the entire front section is merely a portal through which the outsiders can peer in and stand agog at the open kitchen.

Any Zizzi worth its weight in tomatoes will proudly tell you how very very Italian it is, but this one just about staples it to your forehead. It looks and smells and sounds like an Italian: the look is a loud menagerie of open-mouthed stomachs ceasing to talk only when the next tasty shovelful of seafood risotto is readied; the smell is a screaming waft of buffalo mozzarella being deliciously cremated in the wood burning pizza oven; and the sound emanates from the staff who, regardless of their provenance, are all well versed in the art of Anglo-Italo accents, throwing down a gauntlet no Kate (Winslet or Blanchett) would dare to challenge.

The menu beats Nandos and Wahaca up the nationally-themed chain restaurant evolutionary ladder. The choice of available dining options is almost worryingly plentiful and items change as often as they should do, which is on a par with most high street sales. Plus, even though the menu is so hefty, the cooks still manage to rustle up a specials menu from somewhere (strangely, there might be something in the naming of this ‘specials’ menu and you might be better off choosing from it).

The carbon footprint in this place must be off the chart as much of the food is sourced from just down the road in local Italy. The cheeses, the wines, more or less everything they can get away with is Italian and the jury is still out on whether the Gloucestershire steak used to drive a Fiat and chain-smoke three packs a day.

Starter: whitebait, adequate. Not as crunchy as the same dish eaten in a Reel Greek restaurant only three days prior.

Main: Gorgonzola gnocchi, wintery; deserving of a scarf, a carrot and an errant piece of coal.

Dessert: the best. A strong almond obsession as Amaretto features almost everywhere (a good thing). However, as inviting as they are, it might be ill advised to opt for a dessert. Not because the consequent dish will be of a substandard quality. On the contrary, the magnitude of the task for consuming such a beast will leave you feeling a tad uncomfortable around the midriff as you roll out the door, giddy with post-feast haze, and wander straight into oncoming traff….SPLAT!

There’s no head chef creating masterpieces here. It’s mostly pre-created. Although the pasta is scolding hot and flavoursome, there are concerns that it may not be fresh. And this, an authentic dip into the seas of Italian culture?! Due to the sheer size and custom of the restaurant, it’s likely they try to sneak a few corners and have the food pre-made. Yet, regardless, it’s a chain that everyone feels comfortable with and one where you’ll indulge in an above average but no wow factor fare. Overall, a pleasing circus of service, a heavy set of desserts, and wine glasses that sharks could circle in. Grazie!

The Phoenix

23 Smith Street, Chelsea SW3 4EE
Imagine you’re wearing a really, really tight baseball cap. So tight your brain is knocking on the sides of your skull and demanding evacuation. Now imagine you’re also on Oxford Street. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon. On a Saturday. Just before Christmas.

Suddenly, you’re not on Oxford Street any more but by yourself on top of a lonely hill in the Cotswolds, in the sun, sitting on a couch big enough for three yous, with a pint of irresponsibly strong beer in your hand. You remove the baseball cap and simultaneously take a sip of your delightful beverage. AHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......

Well, that’s The Phoenix. The zenith of AHHHHHHHHHhhhhhh. The heavyweight champion of AHHHHHhhhhh. The Grand Old Duke of AHHHHHHHhhhhhhhh.

When you visit The Phoenix - which you will - you’ll need to take the following items with you:
A) 1x parking permit for the Royal Borough of Kensington & Chelsea
B) 1x squeegey
C) 1x wallpaper scraper, preferably the largest one you can possibly find

This is because, on all counts, you’ll be staying for some time and will no doubt eventually need assistance to help scrape your sorry ass off the couch and out onto the street. It’s closing time and you’ve got work tomorrow, remember?

The Phoenix is the 5-year old offspring of hot-stuffs, Geronimo Inns, who have thankfully been throwing their weight around London for a while. And much like their other community castles - The Fentiman Arms in Oval and The Morgan Arms in Mile End - the positioning of The Phoenix at a quiet residential crossroad is a very deliberate and homely move by Geronimo. Although being well hidden, The Phoenix is not really off the beaten track so much as slightly loitering on the verges of a horrendously busy thoroughfare. For this immaculate Georgian street, my friends, feeds straight into the hustle, bustle and well-toned muscle of London’s street market to the rich and famous, King’s Road.

Step under the cosy wings of The Phoenix and you’re automatically reduced to a quivering pile of leisure. The wallpaper is warming, the fireplace is welcoming, the absence of music is hospitably deafening. There is only one TV and even that is limited to terrestrial; with the sound off. Inside, oak tables mingle with leather-seated booths that chat with walls adorned with big art that coerce with shelve dividers filled with sculpture and pottery. Even the light fittings are trying to get in on the action, the innovative so-and-sos.

Upon this seating and ornaments are the eyes and arses of the clientele, who, it has to be said, are of the rosy-cheek and posh-accent variety. This is ra-ra-ra country, so if you’re easily offended by a Porsche or a Ferrari - be they a car or a lady - you’re probably lost and should not have wandered into this pub in the first place. Now, get back down your own end before we set the dogs on you!

Sitting is the order here. No standing room available. As it is so neatly compacted into this tidy little space, it does have the potential to get a bit hairy if more than one large family congregates. Yet somehow, that makes it more endearing.

The menu is a foodie’s hot weekend in Paris and very much of the time, throwing in words like guinea fowl, salt marsh lamb, truffled artichoke, brown Portland crab, turnip puree and juniper jus. Plus, the menu changes frequently, so foodie wont get bored. If you have the option, the braised red cabbage with any of the dishes - starter, main or dessert - is horrendously gratifying. As is the ever-popular sticky toffee pudding. And how’s this for a starter?! Fresh salmon, capers and grated egg!!

The beer and wine choices are fair yet the wine list is chosen by a Master of Wine, no less (clue in the title there), and includes that Infamous Goose Wild Rock Sauvignon.

Overall, a cosy night out. Bring family, bring friends, bring lovers, bring pets and Martians. The Phoenix could well be a quaint place during summer as you spill out onto the pavement side alley with a Pimms in one hand and your shopping kill in the other. Even Elton ‘hissy fit’ John couldn’t fail to feel relaxed at The Phoenix.

Pub games

On his day, Denmark’s Lars Trabolt is unstoppable. As is Keith Elwin. As are Frédéric Collignon, Daryl Peach, Rubilen ‘Bingkay’ Amit, Trevor Gallienne, Don Jones, Beth Westberry, Anastasia Dobromysova, and the Klahr brothers, Chris and Dan. And let’s not forget the might of The Gloster Gladiators and The Laughing Fish. These names might mean nothing to you in the immediacy but they are in fact at the pinnacle of their chosen event. They are ALL current world champions and their expertise lies at the very heart of Britain’s national pastime: namely, pubs. As their names appear, they reign in the worlds of backgammon, table football, pool, 9-ball billiards, bar billiards, dominos, arm wrestling, darts, quoits, skittles and Toad in the Hole.

You may have previously encountered a few of the above. Equally, you may be thinking “What the hell is Toad in the Hole if it’s not a delicious sausage-based meal?” Toad in the Hole is played by throwing brass discs at a hole in the top of a wooden box sat against a wall. Its popularity is concentrated mainly in East Sussex where the only known league still survives.

Similarly rare and provincial are the cricket-like Bat and Trap of Kent and the coconut shy Aunt Sally, primarily found in Oxfordshire. The latter was probably introduced to the Oxon area when Charles I relocated his entire retinue there during the Civil War in 1642. Although the contemporary version simply requires players to knock a ball from a plinth, the original was likely to have been much bloodier: a chicken, a rope, some sticks and a cruel demise.

Question: ever joined a girter and danced around a flonker? Were you flonked with the dwyle for a wanton, marter or ripple? If not, did they get swadged? If so you were probably somewhere in Sussex or Suffolk partaking in a bit of Dwyle Flonking. There are no winners or losers in Dwyle Flonking, only drunkards. Basically, two teams attempt to flick a beer-soaked rag onto one another’s bodies. Breaks in play occur for the purposes of pint necking.

Yet another regional recreation is the ring-over-a-pin throwing game of Quoits. Played in the North East and in some parts of Scotland and Wales it dates back as far as 1388 and is much like horseshoe pitching. Similarly, Ringing the Bull, almost exclusive to Nottingham, is based around the action of hooking a metal ring onto a target (bull’s horn) positioned on a wall. Both these games show parallels with games that were played by the Romans.

Other games you might like to try:
- the table skittle game, Devil Among the Tailors;
- the human skittle game, Conga Cuddling;
- or the two-player game, Rhubarb Thrashing, in which blindfolded contestants stand in empty dustbins and smack one another about the head with handfuls of rhubarb.

Some games stand the test of time, some clearly do not. The 17th-century card game, Cribbage, is still going strong throughout the British Isles. Backgammon, which was originally brought to England by the Crusaders in the 11th century, is likewise. It wasn’t until the 20th century that table games made a prolific appearance - firstly, bar billiards from Belgium and then pool following the popularity of Paul Newman’s 1961 movie, The Hustler.
In the 1970s video games and slot machines appeared. In the 90s it was the quiz, both in machine and team formats. In the noughties the smoking ban came along, leading to profits generated by food rather than booze and a premium on table space.

Pubs are beginning to disappear - 27 per week according to The British Beer and Pub Association - and our main interests now lie with the gods known as Sky and Setanta. Also, one glaringly obvious aspect most ye olde social games hold in common is the opportunity for mishap, too. There are countless health and safety possibilities linked with people throwing objects in confined spaces whilst under the influence. A combination of all of these factors has ensured dwindling participation in said games.

Darts could well be the exception. Six million people in the UK still regularly play darts, making it one of our most contested sports. And yet weirdly, it seems to be the one we’re most vehemently bent on keeping: the Save Our Darts campaign, overseen by online bookmakers Blue Square, “aims to have another 10,000 dart boards in pubs by 2017”. According to their studies, pub-goers today prefer adventurous food, extensive beer and wine lists, comfy sofas and good music over darts. And the campaign is boasting royal blessings. Earlier this year, even Prince Charles stepped up to the oche with darts in hand, claiming "I'm doing my best to keep the darts tradition going."

Jolly good.

When in Rome

This feature was published in Royal Jordanian Airline's in-flight magazine, Royal Wings.

Staying over
Luxury lovers will want to head for Piazza della Republica to find five-star luxury at the ritzy Exedra Hotel. It boasts two restaurants, a Wellness Centre, a champagne bar and Rome’s only rooftop pool. Alternatively, for something more private, experience the deluxe rooms, walled garden and roof terrace at the historical Inn at the Roman Forum.


Eating out

The natives are proud of their world-class ice cream. The highly regarded Il Gelato di San Crispino near the Trevi Fountain still commands huge respect; closely followed by Al Settimo Gelo with it’s premium ingredients and Gelateria della Palma, only moments north of the Pantheon.

What to do
During the day discover the rich tapestry of history in an unusual fashion - an exciting new game called The Ruyi - exploring the city, gathering clues using your mobile phone. You may even come across the often-overlooked Catacomb of Priscilla. For the evening’s entertainment, Rome’s weirdest bar, Jonathan's Angels, is suitably kitsch and colourfully.

Shopping
Ice cream is not the only thing Italians are masters of. Shoes are also one of their specialities. The traditional leather designs at Carucci are worth a walkabout. As are the sophisticated creations at Franco Borini (Via dei Pettinari) and the unique eccentricities at the aptly-named Loco (Via dei Baullari).

What to read
Easy readers can indulge in the modern day thriller When in Rome by Ngaio Marsh which revolves around a murdered tourist. Gore Vidal’s Julian is a more substantial tome set around the fictional life of a beguiling Roman Emperor.

Searcy’s at the Barbican

Searcy’s at the Barbican
Thanks to all the cultural fuddery that goes on at the Barbican, it’s become a sort of carnie for a certain type of people. Whilst normal carnies have heads full of candy floss and Jade Goody, the minds of Barbican-lovers are chock full of brown corduroy and Melvyn Bragg. And whereas carnie folk can be found in noisy fields littered with cowpats and stray dogs, Barbicans choose to worship the Gods of the future in this incongruous monolithic structure.

It’s acceptable to think, therefore, that a team like Searcy’s might splatter a sense of art, culture, music and life all over the walls of their Barbican home; especially considering the surroundings and the sterling job they did of reigniting the romance of travel at their other recent development, St Pancras Grand. Disappointingly, though, this is not the case.

All that the refurbishment has managed to achieve is the addition of a bar that nobody uses, a different colour carpet and various levels of blandness. For a start, there’s no music. Which is odd for an establishment that will no doubt receive most of its custom from culture vultures hungry for a bit of Verdi, Seasick Steve or Buena Vista Social Club. There is no atmosphere, whatsoever. This could well be the very first restaurant ever to exist entirely in a vacuum. The low ceilings and thick carpets soak up most of what little sound there is, which from experience is mainly confined to the sound of customers sending back their food because they’ve been given the wrong meal. At one point we saw a waitress carrying several Bakewell tarts asking every table in turn ‘Did you order dessert?’

The time taken to clear dishes and deliver the next course equates to roughly far too long which, again, could be a problem considering that most people have a performance to catch. That, and the fact that the average age of the clientele is about 950. They haven’t got time to wait for dessert. They might not make it out of the restaurant at all.

The food itself is flamboyantly average when, or even if, it arrives. It mainly hangs around the ‘cor blimey, eh oop chuck, why eye man’ school of thought, with a general British intent and perhaps a slightly zealous obsession with tradition. Henry VIII would have feasted on similar words: smoked eel, wood pigeon, egg of duck, hare in a pie, fish in a stew, shin of beef with kidneys, bread and butter pudding. He might not have had the pleasure, however, of the such a diverse mead list. The wines on offer come from countries that Henry would’ve either married or gone to war with. Chances are he would chosen the excellent Chapel Down Bacchus (borne of Kent!) had he the opportunity.

The starters are handsomely presented and quite generous as well, so although opting for three courses at £28.50 might sound like a good deal you’ll probably be filled by two (£24.50). Plus, with three you’ll have to arrive at about 2.30 in the afternoon to get through them all before the performance at 7.30pm. Adversely, for those attempting to use the restaurant for romantic purposes, the mid-show sitting might be best suited.

Now, the view. This is probably the restaurant’s only laudable feature. Without it, Searcy’s report card would have some serious explaining to do. The 180-degree vista tunes in a whole host of things to distract you from your Searcy’s experience: the as-old-as-time-itself St Giles Cripplegate Church, the swan-less scum-layered canal, the reassuringly expensive apartment tombs and the various futuristic faculties of some girls’ school or other. It’s a bit like eating dinner on the control deck of the Starship Enterprise, looking out over the physical embodiment of an Escher drawing, had it been drawn in the 1970s.

Overall, Searcy’s at Barbican is not a young, fresh, vibrant place. The most fun to be had is the walk through the maze of bridges and walkways from Moorgate. If you have the legs, the Portuguese restaurant, Portal, is only a 10 minute walk away. If you’re an octogenarian, however, stick with Searcy’s Barbican blandness.