STK London
“The décor is, to put it mildly, challenging for two gentlemen such as ourselves. There is a great deal of purple…”
“The décor is, to put it mildly, challenging for two gentlemen such as ourselves. There is a great deal of purple…”
“As a man whose mouth has been known to water in a farmyard, the idea that there would be culinary fireworks involving the fatted calf, and plenty more besides, was a heavenly one.”
“A hubbub of excited noise and the turmoil of other people having a jolly good time crash into us as we enter the main restaurant.”
“Over the past five years, London’s steakhouse scene has become a well bred beast and the steak spectrum for meat eaters in the capital is now broad and multifaceted…”
BRGR.Co. A strange, vowel-less beast that’s popped up on Wardour Street, part of the renaissance of Soho restaurants and the new breed of burger purveyors who’ve set up shop to make the most of London’s burning desire for re-imagined American junk-food.
“How’s the meat situation?” – This enigmatic question was graffitied onto a work top at my old university and is, bizarrely, permanently etched in my mind.
Parquet floors, like steaks, require meticulous care. My grandmother knew this with clarity, and as a boy I used to visit her every Saturday to gorge on steak and chips.
“Wishbone is a new fried chicken and wings restaurant, the newest addition to the now uber-cool Brixton Village, which takes its residency underneath the rail arches of the railway station.”
“Jonesy and I make our way through the reception area of The Mandeville and slip into the low-lit cocktail bar. Fresh from the book, I immediately feel like Ripley. My recent reading is having a palpable effect on my state of mind, my sanity.”
You’ll hurt at Hawksmoor. If you don’t then you’ve failed. Aching, distressed, belly-burning protein poisoning. Covetous carnivores in their baggy shirts and lose-fitting trousers have declared Hawksmoor steaks the best in town.
“You must have the cheesecake, it’s the house speciality,” said Chi Chi. Cheesecake? Not a light sorbet, not a fresh fruit salad, not even a delicate mousse – no, cheesecake, on top of steak. Was this a cruel joke?
Surry Hills is probably the beating heart of Sydney’s culinary body. On this jaunt home to my motherland I was pleased to find one of the finest additions to the district is smack in the centre of it all.