Best bread and butter on earth at fab Dabbous
RESTAURANT
DABBOUS
39 Whitfield Street W1T 2SF
FOOD *****
SERVICE *****
ATMOSPHERE *****
Cost per person without wine: £50
Ollie Dabbous, the man behind the most talked-about, hardest-to-book new restaurant in England, is from Guildford. I like that. It gives Dabbous – whose food was said to be so exciting by one famous critic that sex with Wonder Woman herself would be dull by comparison – a whiff of humility. It’s also somehow pleasing that unlike the top dogs on the World’s 50 Best Restaurants list, Dabbous’s origins are not Danish, Spanish, French or American, but Surrey.
Now the thing with Dabbous – whose next tables aren’t available until September – is whether the meal, composed after all of food, not super-particles, can possibly measure up to the hype.
My verdict? Almost. At one point we found ourselves in the odd situation of sitting before two very very good plates of fish – a char-grilled salmon with elderflower and cucumber and a barbecued halibut with iodized sour cream, beetroot and watercress stems (yup) – feeling a bit underwhelmed. Even Ollie Dabbous couldn’t make fish fly. Damn him.
But of course, our hesitation over the fish was only because what came before was so ingeniously delicious. To start with, the bread. It arrived, piping hot and fresh, in a paper bag which for some reason only made it more delectable. Thick rye slices, and the butter – whew! the butter – was freshly churned and faintly smokey by osmosis (“everything in the kitchen is smoky, we love char-grilling things” a waiter explained). It was the shape of a walnut whip and the texture of whipped cream. We had two bags of bread, four slices in each bag, and two butter whips.
Coddled eggs made for lovely spoonfuls: they were egg shells without tops, with a warm filling reminiscent of Hollandaise, but ramped up with smoked butter and woodland mushrooms. Even better, because less familiar, were jersey royal new potatoes in warm buttermilk; this little bowl of spuds went well beyond any potato dish I’ve ever tasted. Creamy, yes, but also tart, with a mustardy, vinegary kick, studded with firm and woody little fungi. On top was crumbed rye bread – a curiously excellent garnish and one that we saw a few times.
The star turn of the night was the barbecued Iberico pork, a dark, almost maroon rhombus of the deepest-flavoured meat – let alone pork – that I’ve tasted in recent memory. But it was the acorn praline it came with, like crushed hazelnuts but earthier, that sealed the deal. Acorns and barbecue go together like a dream, it turns out, particularly when married by a beautifully cooked piece of pig, sprinkled by home-made apple vinegar, topped by turnip tops.
Have dessert. Particularly the custard pie. It’s the lightest dollop, faintly floral in flavour, with an apply crust. Fresh milk curds with black sugar and rose petals had the lovely taste of ricotta, only more exotic because of the surprisingly bolshy rose. Chocolate and virgin hazelnut oil ganache with basil moss, however, did not work well for me. The green sauce of the basil was like a pasta sauce had found its way onto the wrong plate. Or a shot of wheatgrass juice. I wanted to be left in piece with my chocolate.
Finally, the prices are reasonable and the service at Dabbous is brilliant. As my friend put it: “the staff seemed to all be in their salad days, but with the relaxed authority of people with years in the business, retired and now doing it just for fun but better than anybody else.” Is everything at Dabbous mind-blowing? No. Are most things? Yes. Is it worth the wait? Definitely.