Anchor and Hope is a gastro-pub located near the Tate Modern Museum and the Old Vic theater. It has been written about extensively on multiple food sites and lauded often by bloggers. It was recommended as a final dining experience one evening by a London local and I honestly had forgotten that I had received previous recommendations.  Unfortunately, what transpired almost ruined what could have been a stellar dining experience.

As it was our last day in London, my old friend and I were tromping around the Thames, anticipating meeting up with the rest of my party shortly around dusk at the Oxo tower for cocktails. Twenty minutes before our appointed cocktail time, I received a call that they were done with cocktails and getting hungry – why didn’t we all head to the Anchor and Hope and whomever was there first, snag a table for five. “L” tubed over and arrived at approximately 6:15 p.m. and was told a table would not be available until 7:30 or 8:00!  Well, we went ahead and put our name down and headed around the corner to the Wellington for a pint. Needless to say, the fact that the people I was with was willing to wait an hour for this restaurant and not for Tayaabs a few days before was slightly annoying.

We returned at 7:30 and was told it would be another half-hour to 45 minutes. Okay, the boys headed off to another pub and I wandered around a local market. I went and found the boys at the other pub and they indicated they would be right back to Anchor & Hope. I walked back to the restaurant and we were informed that a table for five had been available while we were gone and that it would be another half hour. Can I express how upset we were all getting? By 8:45 (two-and-a-half hours after we checked in!) we got a table. And guess what? Half of what we wanted to order was already crossed off the list.

Starving at this point, we managed to order the beef ribs with béarnaise (their last of the evening), a roast duck (also their last, we were told), a snail salad, cuttlefish risotto, and a fennel gratin. The beef was excellently prepared, delightfully rare, and at this point, great tasting. The snail salad was my least favorite (especially after the one I had at St. John). The duck was quite hearty but I really liked what it was stuffed with (a bit of pork around some cabbage). The winner of the evening was the fennel gratin. All of the food was respectable but I think the enjoyment was due more to abject hunger and having waited so long. I would have liked to enjoy a dessert, but as it was getting on after 11:00 when we were finishing, it was too late for everyone who was anxious to leave. The setting is too crowded, too loud, and too cramped. I would be hard-pressed to ever want to return.

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I’m writing this from a Barcelona tapas bar, just trying to keep ahead of the reports. Our last day-time meal in London was at Papillon, recommended by the concierge at our hotel. We had wanted to go to brunch at the The Ritz, but it is still under renovation. I was a tad dismayed when I saw the menu as there were no “typical” brunch items that one would expect. My friends had gotten accustomed to my devilish ways of wanting many tastes and we essentially ordered the entire left-hand side of the menu; all of the soups, most of the salads, and all of the appetizers. Nine courses for five people, way too much money, and one of the most memorable meals I have ever had.

1. Escargot – slightly typical with tons of garlic but atypical in that they were redolent with herbs and delightfully presented in individual cups. The side-dish of chips were also a bit different and went mostly un-eaten, but that okay…

2. Beef Tartare – very, very nicely cut meat but a tad heavy on the Worcestershire sauce, but certainly appreciated by the testosterone which surrounded me.

3. Asparagus salad with pistachio panna cotta and Parmesan crisp – the asparagus in London has thus far been delightful. The dish we had at Rules a few evenings before was a bit fresher and better quality, but the presentation of this vegetable with the panna cotta was inventive and refreshing.

3. Green pea soup with poached egg – We ordered this as several of us were craving eggs. Breaking open the yolk and stirring it around the thin, bright soup was perfect. Redolent of the ingredient and not of cream or fillers and not too thick; the way one wants creamy pea soup in the spring. Bright and clean pea flavor.

4. Salad with fried pigs trotters – Granted, who really wants the greens? This was all about the perfectly crisp and rich pigs trotters which were not too heavy, perfectly fried, and a huge hit.

5. Terrine de foie gras with a layer of quince – Quite possibly one of the best foie terrines I have had; served appropriately with two slices of brioche, the slice was huge, the preparation perfect (nary a blood vessel to be found!) and the insertion of the quince in the middle an easy way to not have too much or too little.

6. Mediterranean fish soup – On the menu, the description made me think it would be a bouillabaisse as it was described as a fish broth accompanied with rouille, croutons, and cheese. Little did we know that what would arrive would be a tureen of dark, muddy broth and three copper pans of our self-serve accompaniments. I spread the rouille on each tiny slice of bread, sprinkled the cheese in the broth, and placed the laden croutons atop the broth. This dish was quite nearly the show-stopper and a beautiful example of well-integrated flavors and a perfect example of classic of classic flavors superbly presented.

7. Salad with black trumpet mushrooms, poached egg, jambon, and a light vinaigrette – again, another winner. The ham was not sliced too thin or too thick, the egg was perfectly poached so that the runny yolk blended well with the fresh greens and the fresh mushrooms were plentiful and enough of an earthy flavor to round out a great dish.

8. Gnocchi – Okay, the one dish ordered from the entrée-side of the menu. Somebody wanted it; I only tasted a bit but enough to know they were well-prepared and perfectly light with a rich, creamy sauce.

9. Presidential Soup – the clear show-stopper; in a small tureen and topped with baked puff pastry, the rich beef soup was filled with bits of marrow, fresh vegetables, and foie gras. It is difficult to express how terribly rich and how ultimately perfect this soup was. We all had spoonfuls but some of us produced very large chunks (bigger than the soup spoon!) of foie gras. It was artery-clogging, decadent, and a taste that I will not soon forget.

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Besides trying to look at as much art as possible, I went to Harrods every, every day. Quite simply, their food court is a thing of beauty. A jaunt to Harrods started my days, partly because they are less crowded right when they open at 10:00 a.m., but also because the food court is so diverse in its offerings. I had oysters on the half-shell with Muscadet for breakfast. One morning it was the cylindrical meat pies (venison with Stilton and orange, thank you!). How can you not love a place that has FOUR different providers of Goose Fat? Or a fish market that offers varieties which can be brought home — or they will cook it for you there (fry, broil, etc.?) The butcher has Scottish-raised beef and Danish-raised lamb. And it isn’t just the First Floor food court that makes Harrods special; they have restaurants and bistros on every floor, including a specialized chocolate bar (I know, I should have at least tried a hot chocolate from there and I didn’t!)

I also wandered into a local corner market and beheld a bounty of foreign treats for sale. It was delightful that it was not a specialty market; not an Indian market per se, or a Middle Eastern market. It was just a corner market with insta-curries and canned Moroccan lamb soup. I chuckled at the “Pot Noodle” offerings of Bombay Bad Boy, Lamb Hotpot, and more. I loved that an Apple and Elderflower drink is available. And that shelves which hold the instant custards and pre-made plum puddings lie above the shelf of bags of lentils, peas, and beans and below the shelf of instant Sindhi Biryani and Chatt Pakora mixes.

Another revelation occurred at the Borough Market. I….. Had….. No….. Idea….. This is where the Cheese Gods live. The heavenly angelic choir sings forth giant wads of coagulated milk and I exalt in the joy that is cheese. I hearken back to Clotaire Rapaille’s analysis of the American cheese market and how one such as I have been brought up with a knowledge of cheese:

I know that in America the cheese is dead, which means is pasteurized, which means legally dead and scientifically dead, and we don’t want any cheese that is alive, then I have to put that up front. I have to say this cheese is safe, is pasteurized, is wrapped up in plastic. I know that plastic is a body bag. You can put it in the fridge. I know the fridge is a morgue; that’s where you put dead bodies. And so once you know that, this is the way you market cheese in America.

At the Borough Market, for the first time in my life, I saw cheese specimens sitting out in the open; no plastic wrap, no refrigerator, and no one wearing surgical gloves when handling the cheese. The smell was pungent in the air and it was glorious. The green vegetables seemed greener. Mushrooms where strewn in a giant platter for the customer to pick at will. I also had a bit of a Dickensian/Pepysian moment in buying a cup of mulled wine from a vendor; warm and spicy and oh, so satisfying.

God, Britain, I love you so…

Harrods:

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I firmly believe that many “foodies” out there discount the oldest restaurant in London, Rules. This was a second visit for me and a destination restaurant that I was looking forward to returning to. See, the last time I ate there, I was only a budding foodie, there was no such thing as a blog, and no way to network with other culinary aficionados to know where to eat. I was just a history buff who had read about the illustrious history including the literary greats who had dined there; Galsworthy, Thackeray, Dickens, and H.G. Wells.

With four of us dining, there was a great opportunity for lots of tastes… We started with a bottle of ’84 Pol Roger, Cuvée de Winston Churchill to accompany our appetizers, a terrine of duck foie gras served with rillettes and elderflower jelly, Brown Windsor soup with Welsh Rarebit, a special offering that day of fresh asparagus with Hollandaise and slivers of black truffles, and another special, Wiltshire rabbit country pâté which was easily my favorite, cut thick and redolent with pistachios, dried fruit, and topped with a spicy fig confiture. The asparagus was also a favorite; dining with folks who tend to shy away from vegetables, I somewhat believed I might get this beauties to myself, but others saw how hearty they were and they quickly disappeared.

I was very lucky to be dining with gentlemen who were amenable to sharing as the plates went on rotation around the table; roe deer loin with warm salad of wilted chicory, pear, and Stilton, rack of West Devon lamb with Anna Potatoes and mint sauce, fillet of beef on the bone with grilled bone marrow with a red wine sauce studded with black truffle bits, and the Rules’ version of Blanquette de Veau, which I think was my favorite. It was served in two parts, the rice studded with fresh tarragon and black trumpet mushrooms and a copper pot with the creamy sauce, chunks of tender veal, and large fresh cepes. The fillet was tender and rich and paired well with our 2000 Nuits St. Georges Clos Saint Marc.

We finished our evening by opening an ’86 D’Yquem and a number of desserts, sticky toffee pudding, apple tart tatin, a cheese plate, and some braised rhubarb. All of the desserts were excellent as was the service. I love the atmosphere at Rules and I love the old world-style service. It hearkens back to an era in which I wished I lived, somewhat Edwardian and classically elegant in the style of Escoffier and Ranhoffer. The food is not haute or molecular or even daring. There is an understated quality and charm that perhaps is best appreciated by those of a certain generation, but all I can say is that it makes me happy.

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It is slightly sad for me that my time in London was so rushed; there are always so many more places I would like to visit than I had time for, but I applaud myself that I got to the three major art museums: The Victoria and Albert, the Tate Modern, and The National Gallery (oh yeah, and the County Hall Gallery for the Dalí exhibit, but I already mentioned that).

The Victoria and Albert Museum was my first serious expedition as it was terribly close to my hotel. It was exciting to see renovation and expansion, but damnably annoying that its jewelry collection was put away while a stunning new display is being prepared (and will be open in May, just a few weeks away!). It was not hard then to suffice through the stunning hall of silversmithing; rows and rows of tankards and teapots, samovars and spoons, or plates to pomanders. It made me wistful for my days of calloused hands and the methodical percussion of the hammers striking that softened, matte lunar metal.

The end of the gleaming hall of perfected silver where giant, life-sized lions as well as some excellent samples of newly-designed, modern work. But it was classical pieces showcasing the masterful skills of raising, chasing, repoussé, and engraving which inspired me. Besides the illustrious metalwork, the museum boasts many additional joys including a colorful, ceramic stairwell, a massive collection of historic plaster cast reproductions of classical architectural bits and statues, and a smattering of modern works. Well, the smattering was minuscule, but I was specifically taken by an installation piece by Camelia Parker; several dozen flattened, musical instruments suspended horizontally in the open hole situated between two floors of the museum. I have been so taken that I found this additional shot online, but also learned she is the artist responsible for Heart of Darkness, hanging in the DeYoung in San Francisco. Beside the Chihuly glass hanging in the entranceway, it was very enjoyable to be able to view down upon a craftsman, working on a piece which is supposed to be part of the new display of the museum’s Medieval and Renaissance collection.

The Tate Modern is a museum I was specifically told to investigate by a number of people. It took a bit of work to get there only because although I had been experiencing nothing but heavy London drizzle, that particular morning it was a torrential downpour. Architecturally, the building doesn’t speak much for itself and assumes the demeanor of a large, refurbished warehouse. However the entrance, with its long, sloping descent, begins to reveal its first installed treasure, a surprisingly temporary installation by Doris Salcedo, a giant crack in the floor. I was surprised to learn it was a temporary installation and it will apparently be replaced after April 6th. The crack is very reminiscent of the crack in the entranceway of the DeYoung in San Francisco (by Andrew Goldsworthy) except that this crack was significantly larger and Goldsworthy’s traverses through various hunks of rock which are strategically placed around the DeYoung’s courtyard.

The Tate is impressive in being seven stories tall, however the top two stories are administrative and culinary (a restaurant and bar). What was slightly annoying is that the main floor entrance has escalators which lead to the THIRD floor, bypassing the second. I only learned this when I attempted to enter the Duchamp/Man Ray/Picabia exhibit — for which a ticket was required. Oh yeah, British museums are free except for the occasional special exhibit. So after wandering around the third and fourth floors, I had to find a lift to the second (very crowded lifts with all the baby carriages). There is another interesting factor I noticed; the preponderance of families. It was really quite a joy to see crowds at a museum as many American ones I have been to seem sparsely populated.

The Duchamp/Man Ray/Picabia exhibit was very extensive, including the famous Duchamp fountain, but I was more intrigued with a retrospective by Juan Muñoz, specifically a room filled with 100 grey figures entitled Many Times (1999). Apparently the artist stumbled on a ceramic bust of an Asian head and reproduced atop bodies gathered in various states of discussion or groups. The oddity lied in the fact that the smiling, jovial face changed in respect to how the head was twisted, either looking towards or away from a neighboring partner. The lack of color and the quantity of the figures produced a disarming, ethereal sensation which is haunting me still.

The National Gallery – Located adjacent to Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery has what is arguably one of the best selection of Western European paintings in one, elegant, old-world building bedecked with mosaic floors, vaulted ceilings, and Roman architectural elements in its columns and cornices. It was easy to get lost in the displays which were appropriately sequestered by century.

An interesting debate at the moment is the status of the Fourth Plinth, built in 1841 for an equestrian statue which — for some reason — does not exist, it has been used for revolving installations and is now a subject of debate for a permanent installation. There is a quick overview here, but much debate exists in the printed and online media about a potential permanent installation. It seems they have narrowed it down to four contenders which will be decided in the next few months. I grabbed a shot of the current installation, the shot with the yellow acrylic sculpture.

The major occurrence at the National Gallery was an unexpected Stendahl moment. Surprisingly, after seeing a great deal of art at all four galleries, it was in an Impressionist room which contained Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Renoir’s At The Theater, as well as works by Pisarro, Manet, et al — and there it was, Claude Monet’s Houses of Parliament, Sunset (1902). When I approached it, I was completely overcome as tears began streaming down my face. I know he painted several versions, at sunset and sunrise, but somehow I was seeing angst in the broad, swirling brush strokes in the sky, contrasting with the horizontal, conflicting brush strokes mirrored in the Thames below. It was the pink and the purple and violent temper of the clouds, but I could not stop the tears at the beauty I saw.

Thinking it might have been just “an emotional moment,” I walked away and wandered the gallery for another 45 minutes to an hour, even sitting in on a school lecture in front of large Italian altarpiece of Seraphim, Cherubim and Adoring Angels. (Remember when schools brought kids to galleries and exposed them to art? My first trip was to what is now the Getty Villa when I was eight or nine years old and I still remember it). Regardless, after some time and space, I went back into the Impressionist area to see if the crowds had subsided around the Van Gogh and if a different Monet might affect me (his Water Lilies never have, for example). But there it was again and again the emotion welled up as I started to sob uncontrollably. And I still have no idea why, but that piece has impassioned me…

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