“And do you remember…” I spent the first twenty minutes of dinner at the new Hawksmoor reminiscing over evenings spent in the venue during its previous incarnations. Such is dining in London. The last time I was here, it was Matt Hermer’s mod Japanese joint, Senkai. I remember liking the food a lot, but felt like I was eating in a very expensive nightclub – a nightclub where people wore baseball caps. Disgusting. Before that, it was Cocoon, which was prettier, and carved up the room with spacey sheer curtains, like a kind of Battlestar Galactica banquet scene. There were petals encased in glass and lots of orange and pink light, dim sum and sushi – my two very favourite things. As with Senkai, the food was good. But on my last visit I was seated close to the bar, where people were smoking. So, again, disgusting. Then there was L’Odeon before that, which was… boring. I don’t want to say that this Piccadilly site is cursed, because with the exception of Senkai each restaurant had a fair innings, but… can Hawksmoor make it work long-term?
I can’t cook like this at home – I don’t have the kitchen for it, and I doubt you do either.
The upstairs of 5a Air Street will always be a tricky space. This time around it’s been butched up with green leather and wood, with a certain richness accented by stained glass. It’s handsome, but this is a tough room. It’s not as narrow as, say, CUT on Park Lane, but it’s very long and one end always curves out of sight, giving you the impression you’re on a cruise liner.
The crowd on my visit wasn’t as male-dominated as I’ve noticed at other branches of Hawksmoor, and half the room seemed to be in T-shirts. There were two women in the bar, with a pram, sinking cocktails. I sat down, saw the buggy and my eyes went on safari to the back of my head. If God had meant babies to join us for martinis, he wouldn’t have invented Starbucks. The cocktail menu at the new Hawksmoor details the style of drink according to time of day, from the Toper’s Timetable of the 19th century. So a 6am drink is an “eye-opener” and an 11pm one is a “rouser”. Going by Toper, the two women were somewhere between “chit-chat” and “fancy smile”. I had a “pre-prandial” Hawksmoor Collins with gin and Campari and scarpered off to my table before the crying started.
There are none of the distinctive Hawksmoor chalkboards at the new location to tell you what cuts of cow are still available, and – here’s the key USP – half the menu is seafood. None of your rubbish surf and turf, though; rather thrillingly, Hawksmoor approaches fish in the same rugged, no-nonsense (and inherently expensive) way as it does meat. Charcoal-grilled monkfish or turbot is priced by weight and you can order the stuff to share – as you do the mammoth slabs of medium rare cattle. What this means in practice is that the best steak restaurant in London might also now be the best seafood one too.
At Air Street, I kicked off with a dozen native oysters, continued with potted beef and bacon with Yorkshire puddings (a fiddly but delicious take on a roast dinner) and then got stuck into a Royal bream with a particularly lush Australian Battle of Bosworth Pinot Noir. My companion had turbot, which had absorbed the muscular accents of the grill it had been cooked on, but retained freshness and texture. My bream had been baked in paper with garlic, rosemary and chilli and was full of flavour – juicy and fleshy. I’d like to eat like this every night. This is macho cooking, but modern too, and delivered with near-flawless service. There’s just the right amount of casual banter and gloss. My companion described our waiter as a cross between “David Beckham and Frank Spencer without the pratfalls”, which is actually – if you think about it – a fairly charming combination.
The success of Hawksmoor is less about front of house, though, and more about the science of the kitchen. Not in a nutty professor Heston way, but in the simplicity and sophistication of the charcoal grill. I can’t cook like this at home – I don’t have the kitchen for it, and I doubt you do either.
For pudding we ordered the Toffee Apple Cake with a shot of Shipwreck Cider Brandy. It’s not something that’s appeared on other Hawksmoor menus, so it seemed churlish not to order it. It proved to be a big ol’ turnover sponge cake that set my teeth jangling with its sweetness, but which had the pleasing, moist, nostalgic fluff of suet. While it’s billed as “for two”, it’d be fine for four in search of just a few mouthfuls of something sweet to finish.
Hawksmoor Air Street, 5a Air Street, London W1
0207-406 3980; thehawksmoor.com