I have recently acquired the accolade of Best Girlfriend Ever. It may not be particularly long-lived, but, for now, I am the proud owner of said title.
As for how I got it, it should be relatively obvious. An accolade such as that is really only ever given after arranging or buying something related to the following: cars; meat; beer; and sports matches. This time it was meat. 600 grams of Chateaubriand, to be exact, at Hawksmoor's Seven Dials restaurant.
A brief Google of Hawksmoor reveals the immodest number of reviews, some by notable restaurant critics, raving about their steaks being The Best. Did I believe it? No. But it fitted my criteria for a special evening for The Boy, so I booked. Do I believe it now? Yes. I rave along with the rest of them now, and I encourage you to go so that you can be a raver too.
So what is it that gets so many raving? Well, for one there's the venue. It's a relatively inconspicuous door down a cobbled street in Covent Garden. It could be a stage door for one of the theatres dotted around it. There is something of the night about it - a large, heavy door, that opens into a small, soft lit reception area. Once rid of your coats and bags, you go downstairs into the bar area: tall wooden tables with high bar stools; walls covered in 50's style white tiles; the bar full of decanters and cut crystal glass tumblers, bottles of brandies and vermouths, large bell-jars of fruit in syrup and olives. It oozes style without being sickeningly conscious or laboured.
The Boy and I ordered a cocktail each, whilst perusing the refreshingly 'old-fashioned' cocktail list. Mine a Negroni (what else?), his an "Angel-Face", less than apt but overtly delicious nonetheless. If you have no interest in meat, or are a vegetarian, I would still recommend you going for a drink at the bar. It will reform even the most stalwart cynic of cocktails.
When ready, we moved to the table and the fun began. There is a menu which lists ‘individual steaks’, and ones to share. Blackboards dotted around the room list the different types of sharing steaks, and a list of weights after. As the kitchen runs out of one weight, so it gets crossed off the boards. Our waitress was exceedingly well-equipped with information about each type of steak to help us choose, and did not turn it into a recited monologue about what was on offer. In a moment of temporary insanity, I thought I wasn’t particularly in the mood for steak, so wanted to find a steak large enough for The Boy and I to share, without forcing Him to eat the majority of my half too once I’d had my fill. 1) I don’t think the words ‘force’ and ‘steak’ need ever be in the same sentence with The Boy, and 2) you think he got a look in when the steak arrived? Did he hell.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. There is the starter to speak of before. Me: Brixham Crab on toast, with a gherkin salad. The Boy: chicory, pear and Colston Bassett salad. The same adjectives can be used for both plates: light but vibrant, flavourful but fresh. The soft, crumbly crab sat in a triumphant mound on its thin, cracker-like ‘toast’, not violated with the usual mayonnaise. Left to dazzle in its naked beauty. The Boy’s salad was a man’s salad – the cheese, like mini boulders crumbled in a thick layer on top, laid flat the raw delicacy of its bed fellows, pear and chicory. (Were I to volunteer an improvement, it would be a more powerful, or noticeable dressing. With the strong tasting cheese, and highly sugary candied walnuts, the pear and chicory needed some citrus to bring them alive).
And now on to the main event. For all of my natural verbosity, I am rendered somewhat speechless even by the memory of what we ate. 600 grams of Chateaubriand, rare, with a side of braised peas and lettuce, and beef dripping chips. A bottle of Chateau Musar (Lebanon). We asked for it rare, and it came rare. Criminally red, provocatively soft and fleshy, with an enticingly dark and mysterious seal to its surface. Unethical amounts of salt but truly delicious. We didn’t just eat. We felt, we licked, we sucked, we chewed, we rolled our eyes and then we collapsed back in our seats, our senses exhausted by the stimulation.
Whilst I don’t think the topic of money should come in to or sully such a divine experience, I do feel it appropriate to reassure you that if the prices look steep, sample one of their steaks and that matter will flee your mind entirely. The quality of the meat is superb. Add to that the precision of the chefs cooking it, and you have yourself a very worthy way to spend those notes. I started the meal not entirely fussed for meat, but happy to have a mouthful or two, and ended the meal like a rabid dog scouring the table for any remaining hidden morsels. Those were very happy cows. I could feel it between my teeth. Happy and big and juicy and wow. And in turn they made this cow very happy too.
Desserts for me are not possible after such godliness has passed through my lips, but The Boy was keen for the old Sticky Toffee Pudding, so I kept him company with some pear sorbet. And, out of it all, that was the most disappointing part. It lacked flavour and was overall rather disappointing. Ginger or vermouth would make a welcome addition to the mix. The Boy’s S.T.P was, well, sticky, and cloyingly sweet. I guess what only what is desired from an S.T.P. We followed that with two espressos, and a tantric state of calm.
And, as if all of the above wasn’t temptation enough for you to go to Hawksmoor, on Monday it’s BYOB, with a corkage of £5.
In short: it’d be rude not to.
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