As the weather picks up, it may seem crazy to go underground for a sundowner, but Wacky Wombat, a subterranean hideaway beneath Daroco in Soho, makes for a fitting pit stop, particularly if one’s early for dinner.
And it’s wombat by name, wombat by nature, clearly. Punctuated by blacked out walls as you descend, you weave into a circular warren, with low, velvet banquettes and uplit tables. A twist of greenery through the centre, spreading across the ceiling helps remind you of that underground marsupial feel. And things are a little wacky, too.
Nico de Soto, of Mace in New York fame, has teamed up with the owners of Daroco, for this, his third venue. Wacky Wombat harks from his time in Australia, and the cocktails reflect the connection; Der Raum is a favourite Melbourne bar, Moustaches and Mullets (no explanation necessary), QF1 for the Qantas flight route, you get the idea. Needless to say, the mixologists have had a lot of fun, with many having a vegetal component, adding flavours like pandan, onion and Vegemite. It’s different, for sure, and sets the tone for what will be a memorable evening.
Back upstairs, Daroco is Arb stalwart Rumley’s recommendation for our dinner this evening, such that he’s back here, introducing it to me, within a month of having dined here previously. Praise indeed, surely. That said, he keeps surprisingly quiet, virtually inviting me to see what I make of it.
I barely look at the menu as I’m taken in by the ceiling. It’s like a trompe l’oiel, but a simple trick, really, of mirrors, with arcing frames from the banquettes. “It’s like an Escher painting,” Rummers imparts, putting his finger on my thoughts. It gives a feeling of space, making an intimate restaurant feel a lot bigger than it is.
It’s a template that began some eight years ago when Daroco Bourse opened in Paris, in the former workshop of Jean-Paul Gaultier’s fashion house, earning its designers ‘Best Décor’ in Le Fooding awards. Mirrored ceiling and terrazzo floor aside, the star of the show is the open kitchen and the sculpted Neapolitan pizza oven. “Look closer,” he urges. I do. Its dome is covered in blue ceramic butterflies.
As we sip on Palomas – creatively entitled Da’Paloma – there’s something about the menu I’m drawn to; there are only three secondi. That suggests either a very confident chef, or their pizzas are proving the clear vote winner with the capital’s cognoscenti.
We elect to divide and conquer. Of those mains of parmigiana, hake with celeriac and veal Milanese, he opts for the latter. As indecisive as ever, I ask the waitress for a recommendation, and without pausing for breath, “crab ravioli,” she blurts, checking her enthusiasm immediately, “it’s my favourite.” Crab ravioli it is, then.
As if to qualify what awaits us in our choices, the antipasti we start with sets a head-nodding precedent; crostone con pomadori are an exemplary upgrade on the now ubiquitous tomato bruschetta, scallops are given some heat – and body – with an n’duja crumble, and the burrata salad could compete with the best from Apulia.
As the mains arrive, I could smell the ravioli on its way over; through the butter comes a crisp sharpness of lemon and then the crab hits you. This has turned pasta into an art form. Rummers, clearly, had food envy. The one raviolo I offered didn’t suffice. His ebullience didn’t abate, and I had to cave and offer him another. “The veal’s very nice, but yours is exceptional,” he enthuses, practically stabbing my plate with his knife, before offering profuse praise on its execution. Sipping an elegant Sicilian Diantha from Cantine Pellegrino, its citrus and floral notes making for a lovely accompaniment, we were living la vita Italia all right, and it was sublime.
As the dolci are offered, Rummers weighs in with authority on the menu – I begin to wonder if he’s on commission – ordering for us; the tiramisu for me, “You’ll like it, it’s a stacked disc of cocoa-dusted creamy fluffiness,”(he wasn’t wrong), and finally a taste of pizza in the form of hazelnut praline. I can’t say I’ve had pizza for dessert before, but what’s not to like? Charred pizza dough, chocolate ganache and crushed hazelnuts? What can I say, I am a convert.
Suffice to say, this is splendid summer dining and, of course, there’s a better reason to swing by Daroco as summer emerges; they have one of the best terraces you’ll come across in central London. Tucked behind the Pillars of Hercules (the pub, that is) and overlooked by a serene-expressioned steel sculpture by Cuban artist Rafael San Juan at the end of the courtyard, Daroco’s terrace is a foliage-fringed, comfortable-cushioned al fresco oasis, benefitting from a through-breeze and massive umbrellas to stave of the (hopefully) impending summer heat.
So, get in early, go for a table outside, order your pizza and let the summer soak in. And you can always go a bit Wacky downstairs to close out your evening.
Daroco Soho (and Wacky Wombat) Manette St, London W1D 4AL. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.daroco.com.
Photos by Geraldine Martens
