Just when you think you’re familiar with central London, it still surprises you. Such that St James’s Market is a new one on me. Square, yes. Street, of course. But where was this elusive ‘market’? It turns out to be one of the latest pedestrianised enclaves, forged out of dingy backstreets into shiny glass and burnished steel builds designed to be some sort of urban oasis housing the latest must-visit eateries.
My encounter with this hitherto undiscovered spot – for the decades I must have walked past it – is Toba, an Indonesian entrant on the capital’s international dining scene. In truth, this is the last place I would expect to find a restaurant for Indonesian fare. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but a model of modern urban design was not it. But then let’s dispel the cliche.
Full disclaimer, I spent my early childhood in Jakarta – and haven’t been back since. The world has moved on since then. Rattan seat backs and teak furniture, shadow puppets on the wall et al, only exist in ex-pats’ houses (like my parents’). By contrast, Toba’s interiors are contemporary, understated, with hints of its ethnicity – essentially eschewing novelty in favour of authenticity.
The same goes for the food. Chicken satay is on the menu, naturally. Other staples, like nasi goring, are another throwback to my childhood, but researching the menu there’s far more here than the token, popular offerings. My memory of Indonesian food clearly remains in the Dark Ages, at a time when we would be pining for shipments of cheese.
As we enter, it’s buzzing, and on a Wednesday night. A good sign. “Selamat malam,” I try out my Bahasa, and am greeted with a beaming smile and a slew of gibberish. And can’t answer the response. “Tidak apa apa,” I quip. He looks at me quizzically. I was fast becoming a metaphor for cultural misappropriation. Larman looks at me like I was some sort of Jonny English. “We are both fluent, old boy…” I quip, “sadly, in different languages.” We’re ushered to a table in the corner, and I clunk my head on the low-hanging earthenware lamp as I sit.
Cocktails reflect the country’s flavours; plenty of passion fruit and lychee (or rambutan), and I elect a passion fruit martini, for added sourness. Larman takes a pandan Old Fashioned. I blather something about having pandan jam for breakfast as a boy. “Are you experiencing some sort of Proustian revival?” he remarks. Indeed I am. Starters of satay arrive, smothered in sauce on their wooden trenchers. “That,” I jab at the board, “is what peanut sauce should taste like.” Larman concurs. We may have thought we had the measure of satay, but it transpired chicken was tame; the ox tongue here is for serious Malay contenders.
Our convivial host, Pino, who reminds me of the beaming Jimmy Wah in Good Morning Vietnam, furnishes us with an array of their specials. An obscenely creamy lamb shank with chilli is nothing like the conventional curry I was led to expect. “A Sumatran specialty,” he explains. In a show of appreciation, I go in for another spoonful. But it’s the cod, his late mother’s signature dish, that turns my head. Punchy ‘torch’ ginger and Andaliman pepper give it an unexpected sourness. Surprisingly, though, it’s the side of kale and tofu in coconut milk which proves a highlight.
Between courses I soak up some of the atmosphere. It’s small, intimate – and one of those sorts of places where there’s one toilet. A hand-written sign on the wall within, again, is in Bahasa as well as English, a sure-fire sign that this is authentic stuff, for ex-pats, not just curious tourists.
I get back to table, clunk the lamp again, and the desserts are already there. They are unfamiliar, as you might expect, and require an open mind. Pandan pancakes, with coconut and palm sugar, and cassava cake are as sweet as they are stodgy, but curiously moreish. I wanted nothing less.
We may be in prime real estate – it’s a far cry from the Camden street food stall Pino started with, incidentally – but it hasn’t lost its heart. This has a feel of accessible, convivial, authentic food. As we gather our coats, I offer Pino a final word, “Terimakasi”; he claps his hands together, bows his head and smiles, as if to suggest I’d finally got it right. “What was that?” Larman asks as we leave. “I just said, simply, “’Thank you.’”
Toba, 1a St James’s Market, St. James’s, London SW1Y 4AH. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.tobalondon.co.uk.
